I decided to call this anthology “stories of you, of me, and of everyone else,” because although some of these works were inspired from my experiences, I have embellished most of them for dramatic effect. Yet perhaps this dramatization might make this anthology more universal, more relatable since I have yet to experience many things. I hope you can connect with the poems, I hope you feel touched by the poems, and even if you don’t, I hope that you enjoy reading them. There are three different themes: (1) lives & deaths, (2) friendships, (3) desires. Feel free to choose your own adventure and skip around or simply go down each column. Happy reading!
lives & death
i apologize(d)
to myself (again)
making only left turns because nothing i do is ever right
enough
for me
i ate (too much, too wrong, too late)
the girl in front of a mirror is a victim
of her own standard that she buys and sells
like dollars
only my faith makes the shame real
i worked (too little, too much, too late)
i used to slap myself in the face
when i looked at the clock and saw 11:08
eight minutes behind schedule
punishing, punishment
made me powerful, gave me control
it was never going to happen again
until it does
what if? i run out of time
to make any more mistakes
what’s the price i pay at the end? what’s the total
number of minutes i lost for wasting time?
how?
how?
can i love myself when i do so many things wrong?
can’t it wait? until i’m perfect?
then i can be
apologies
“i’m sorry
that you’re here with me”
Watching a film is such a bizarre experience. Strangers sit in a darkened room together, staring at the events unfolding in front of them. The only sounds socially permitted are the occasional cough, sneeze, and ding of a cell phone (perhaps you’ll receive some aggressive head turns). But you must weep silently. You feel as the tension in your face builds, tears well up and overflow-you blink and swallow. You swallow hard, but waves of intense empathy or sympathy (who the hell knows) for the character surge. The title character Uncle Vanya was so unhappy. I could feel his pain–of time passing, of life being wasted. I imagined him merely moving through life, not even realizing that he was alive. It scared me. As I’m writing this, my heart is still pounding, for him, and for me. Being one of the youngest people in the room, I took “Vanya” as a warning, a realization of a possible future.
I can’t watch anything without being terrified anymore. It did not help that I had no idea what “Vanya” was and had not the slightest idea of who Andrew Scott or Chekhov was. Earlier this morning, I was sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for a seat at OvoFrito. The restaurant was packed and there was not even a bar seat for one. An older woman, who was waiting for her takeout order, sat down next to me.
After a couple minutes, she broke the silence. “Do you happen to be affiliated with Northwestern in any way?” she asked in a soft-spoken, almost apologetic manner.
“Yes, I’m a student.”
She took out a folded piece of paper. It was a ticket for Wirtz Center for the Performing Arts at Northwestern University – NT Live: Vanya.
“I’ve come all the way here from Wisconsin to see this screening, but it’s not showing up on the website. I’d be devastated if it was canceled!”
She explained to me how “Vanya” was a one-man play adaptation of 20th century Russian author Anton Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya”.
“If you don’t have anything else to do, if I were you, I would buy myself a ticket!”
And so I did.
It was an emotionally devastating play about the unfulfilled lives of fading artists, failed dream chasers, and unrequited crushers. When I slowly drifted out of the Wirtz theater in the sunny afternoon, I heard a ‘Hey!’It was the woman I met earlier. Her eyes were red and glassy.
“I was looking around but I couldn’t find you!”
“Well, thank you for recommending this to me. It was so touching.”
Then, without ever introducing ourselves, we bid farewell.
they say
you hate the things you fear most
she didn’t learn to fear
until it was too late.
she used to dream
for the future.
now she begs for the past,
knees bruised from kneeling for the sky
boredom is the closest to the past.
staring at the styrofoam ceiling
she counts
sheep, numbers, backward,
fighting the darkness emerging from her body
that envelops the night
and turns into day
another day
closer to midnight
to never opening her eyes again
it started with the clock.
hurled it across the sterile white room–yet
through the shattered glass
the hands kept ticking.
the tile floors stained red, as she
stomped on the glass fragments.
still the sun gave it all away.
next were the calendars
shred them to pieces
set fire to the paper shards
watched the glorious fumes
waft out the window into the day sky
yet time flies when you’re having fun
she had two choices
to live, dead
or
to die, alive
kerosene, match
foosh
her color matched the sun
when they died,
died together
for the first time
Las manos. Cuando veo sus manos inflamadas y deformadas, siempre miro hacia mis manos después. ¿Cuánto me queda hasta que mis manos sean retorcidas por el tiempo?
Su pelo, blanco, seco, sin vida. Los jóvenes (incluyo yo) inyectan colores diferentes, anormales dentro de su pelo. El pelo que me da asco después de algunos días ocupados. Pero al menos tiene vida. Reflejando su juventud. Aceitoso. Asqueroso. Agarrarlo, fuerte. Porque al menos tiene pelo.
En su mano izquierda no había un anillo. ¿Le faltó amor? ¿Parte o toda su vida? ¿Toda su vida detrás de libros y español en un edificio donde personas envejecen en su propia oficina? Todo el día, mirando afuera de sus ventanas de la juventud, de nosotros viviendo debajo en las calles. Ellos, desde sus oficinas elevadas, están más cerca del cielo que nosotros. A veces nos olvidamos de mirar arriba, adelante.
Ella está llevando un suéter tipo con cuello de tortuga. ¿Para protegerse ella misma del frío o cubrir su piel flácida? Me recuerda a mi abuela, que lleva esos tipos de suéteres para ocultarse – cuando ella se mira dentro del espejo, no quiere ver su edad revelando lo mismo. El cuerpo lucha contra el tiempo y hasta contra el aire, mientras su piel se desintegra rumbo al cielo.
friendships
crack.
a torrent of pebbles against my window.
my first instinct is fear, then
comfort sets in like a warm hug
as i remember you
we stood under the safety of the roof
standing so close to the waterfall
to the sheet of rain
breathing life into spring
the tremendous pounding from the sky
brought you so much joy
as it carried you back to your home, your family.
memories of dry thunderstorms
of close calls and ringing in your ears
standing by your side
we watched the furious storm
quietly, peacefully
frozen in place, mesmerized
i wish you had reached out into the rain
as i did, for many months
grabbed ahold and never let go
but the joy of you slips away
as time passes,
a drip into a torrent through the drain
sometimes i can still see us, but
in memory, i watch as a spectator.
after the scene ends
i shake the snow globe
and watch as the rain falls again
yet just as quickly as it set
the storms moves along and
silence.
like when you’re gone.
i wore a silver ring
once
upon a time
you told me
drunk, in splits
‘i tell you things i don’t tell anyone else’
but i let you go
and you did too
i don’t know who let go first
is there
anything down there?
we giggle
we dream
on a mountaintop
on an island
she was the
queen.
i hope dreams
come true.
look down
look away
seeing no you
i’m sad
she’s grateful
i’m so certain
about things
her iridescent eyes
it’s just us.
so i let myself
when it rolls down
she brushes it away.
you’ll be ready
i hope so
i hug her tight
so tight
as if it’s the last time
“If you don’t want anymore of your drink, you can pour it in mine. But I don’t think I can finish it either.” I tiptoe to try and look over the roof edge. “I poured out most of mine earlier.”
“Is there anything down there?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s just an alley.” We stand in silence, elbows on the ledge, side by side.
“Do you think I can reach that chimney?” I take my bottle of hard lemonade mixed with white claw seltzer and shake the bottle in the direction of the chimney. “I think I got it!” She laughs. “And now there’s nothing left.” We giggle.
“I had a dream that I had a fight on the rooftop. Have you ever had a fight scene?”
“I have, but mine was on a mountaintop.” I pause but there is no inhibition guarding me. “I also had a dream that I had a girlfriend and we had an apartment in Paris.”
“I wish that I was a warrior and had a badass girlfriend that was the queen of the island.”
“So Wonder Woman?”
“No, but I want to be Wonder Woman and I want my queen to be just as badass. Like she could fight me and win but also rule the island.” I look at her.
“I hope your dream comes true.”
At some point, the party moves inside to the living room. She and I sit criss-crossed on one corner of the L-shaped couch. I look down into the palms of my hands as if they have the words I want to say.
“I was already sad in May.”
“May? That’s so early!”
“Yeah, but you know how my brain works. It just thinks into the future and I’m so certain about things.” I have to look away again. “I see a future with no you and I’m just sad.”
“That’s why I’m sad to–,” she pauses and looks me in the eye. “I’m grateful.” For you. (Maybe she said that or maybe I remember it wishfully.)
We remain criss-crossed on one corner of the L-shaped couch.
“You know, my biggest fear is dying.”
“Yeah, I think you told me that before.”
“I know that anxiety is about irrational things that generally don’t happen, but I know that this will happen. I know that we will all die.” Despite the room bustling with 10 other people, it feels like it’s just us two in the living room. So I let myself tear up. I don’t even look away from her iridescent eyes. When it rolls down my cheek, I am surprised when she brushes it away with her fingers.
“Yeah, but maybe when you get old and have lived a long life, you’ll be ready.”
“I hope so.” I pause as I’m swallowed by my tears. “Can I have a hug?” I hug her tight. So tight as if it’s the last time I’m ever going to hug her again.
Sometimes, I wish she was closer. Across time, space, memory.
important, not special
the accursed Water and Air Show, red
white and blue
i don’t even know why my eyes puddle, why my nose tickles
traffic is so fucking bad that driving takes as long as the red line
all i see is red when i think of her
maybe i loved her angrily, despite myself, to spite myself
i’m not really there when i walk, and i don’t know how to live
in the present
i should be ashamed, of all the presents
i had given her, and her, and her
i want to write something
beautiful
i want to be
beautiful
is anything i say even real? or am i acting for her,
for me, for that pit in my diaphragm
that sometimes wakes up with me,
wakes me up
why can’t i be the red, the rose in the garden that everyone
is drawn to? when i draw
characters in my life to feel
loved, i hope
i am all right
without her as my favorite color
desires
a gentle look
wiping your tears, fears
away
words of wanting
words of knowing
you are with me everywhere
i go
because i bring you along
i can’t, won’t forget you
missing you
forever
no matter when you
return
not
fearing you,
believing your
words
holding you
first–
confessing, into
tumbling
You lift the glass to your eye level. On the rim there is a marking that her lips have left. You turn the cup so the markings face you and slowly raise the glass to your lips. This is the closest you will ever get to a kiss.
i have more free time than i thought i would
to think
i have become a deep, deep sigh
every still moment,
a DVD player, my thin, flimsy tracks playing a fuzzy feeling of you,
i can almost capture you, but you are a pixel from the year 2000.
if i move in closer, i am further perplexed–left wanting for clarity.
when i least expect it
you give me your greatest warmth–
a hand to pull me into your caressing hold
i shiver in devastating desire when i replay your forbidden touch.
but you speak a foreign language of love,
one that can only be given, not asked for.
so
when the moment unbearably ends,
i am so hungry for you(r warmth), it pangs like tearing away the curtain after a winter shower
the grieving process is antithetical
realizing that there is nothing more, the glowing red tip of my wick slowly gives way to charred black remains,
to my determination of training myself to coldness.
a sheet of frost covers the throbbing sinews of my heart, icy strokes that separate you and me
to protect my raw and thumping want that i am too proud to beg for
i want you to give it to me, unconditionally, unquestionably, unequally (more)
i want you to inundate me—a force greater than my locked gates
i want to drown in you, gently, waning, utterly
surrendering to you
a feeling of discontented
resentful longing
i hate (sharing) you
but you aren’t mine
wishing every secret you told
was only for my ears
wishing every time you laughed
it was something i said
“friendship”
too little for me
too much from others
i look away when you hold her
place your chin on her shoulder
it’s 11:11
“make a wish”
but if i tell you,
it won’t come true
silent, pathetic
streaks of salt, down my cheeks
in the backseat of a car
wishing i had never met you
promising myself that i mean it
my dear (friend)
i needed a sea away from you
to stop crying and see clear skies.
i am tired of beating my heart
for the want of you
of squeezing myself into black text
on a blank future.
i share my love with everyone but
my whole world–
standing under the limelight
accompanied only by my decaying desire
(inspired by The Letter by Amy Lowell)
Graphic courtesy of Emily Stull