I'm guilty of not confronting this; the days ahead.
Today was the first day in about a week that I had visited my grandfather. Today was also the first day I had seen him when he didn't wake up to meet me. I know it's selfish to expect him to rise up to greet me (as if he had enough strength) but it's bizarre.
I use the word "bizarre" because I can't think of any other way to express these strange feelings of detachment juxtapozed with guilt and longing.
They haven't told him he has inoperable and advanded cancer in his lungs.
I use the word "they" for the purposes as prior mentioned.
Here I am, priding myself on my honesty when I can't tell the man, the most stable father-figure in my life, that he's dying.
I don't cry like my mother or my sisters or my aunts or my cousins.
I weep like an old wound under gause, guilty of infection.
Everyone I have lost
in the closing of a door
the click of the lock
is not forgotten, they
do not die but remain
within the soft edges
of the earth, the ash
of house fires and cancer
in sin and forgiveness
huddled under old blankets
dreaming their way into
my hands, my heart
closing tight like fists.
Check out my angsty, dissatisfied expressions and large head! I figured I would post these before the novelty of finally being a senior fades.
(The woman told me I looked constipated when I smiled. I got a kick out of that.)
This year has, for the most part, begun as anticipated: the college phantom looming over my head, the awkward re-introduction into social circles, fantastic teachers, apathy, and horrendous bus rides to-and-fro. Everything is so frantic already and it's a struggle to step back and just register it all.
My Saving graces are as
(drawn during my economics class and proof of how absent-minded i can be)
He's got an elaborate french name you couldn't possibly pronounce correctly... his record collection is more independant and obscure than your's... he likes to drink cheap wine, smoke cigarettes with filters covered in gold leaf and yell at parked cars...
unfortunately, he works at a themepark during the weekdays and no amount of drunken foolishness can free him of that that awful reality.
"what do you want?"
i want to kiss you, motherfucker.
You would be seventeen today.
There's a whole cornicopia of warm, familiar things that I've imagined would happen today if you were still with us... but you're simply not. It's been nearly a year since you've made your apocolyptic exit and I still feel that same intense guilt and confusion.
Things have changed, now. For better. For worse. They've changed.
Some of us reached out for one another. Some of us just bit our lips and stared off, waiting for it to be over with.
Regardless of what things have taken place in your absence, I still miss you and think of you daily. I can't say much more than that.
Happy Birthday, Jesse.
vacation stories, photos, and slight snottiness.
Romance is a canyon with "fool's gold" veins wired throughout.
When it comes to the opposite sex I'm a terrified and exhausted shadow of my past cool-hand-luke self.
I can't handle it or my liquor. I'm a teenage bore.
I wish I had something new and awe-inspiring to tell you all... something to instill interest and feelings of "oh, is that what she's done with herself?" that would seperate my ridiculous internet endeavour from the rest. Untimately, it's an infantile act of desperation for good conversation and hopes of finding a common soul in the process. Ridiculous, yes. I never said I was logical.
"We can rebuild her.We can make her stonger."
I am who I want to be with room for error and improvement.
Paid in full.
I love it. I'm sipping at my own frothey existance with a cool breeze cat grin.
I'm looking back with fondness, not remorse.
Slightly disappointed that some photographed phantoms won't be here drinking it up with me.
Too bad you'll never know, never see it. That's the price you pay, right?
"I'm excited to see how you turn out after all of this."
I am too. I honestly am and that's just fucking beautiful.
(yeah it is that way. you know nothing of me anymore. the child is gone.)
More like Son of Sam
Museum of Art Application
Nova High finally recognized Jesse's existance today...the concrete is still setting around his plaque, "In Loving Memory, 1990-2006."
A few solid, caustic seconds of regard were all I could take. No one needs to see the welling eyeballs of a seventeen yearold girl.
I should be pleased, content, possibly thankful. I am, ultimately, all that prior mentioned.
Just seeing his memorial plaque near the same location I saw him everyday inflicts such a sharp, salty hurt in my gut ... a familiar pang I had believed died out.
It boiled with acidic intention from my stomach to my throat into my eyes.
I have regrets piled high.
I have a card from your mother.
I have your t-shirt on.
I miss you so goddamn much.