If it were up to me, I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t smile. I wouldn’t talk much. I’d be sitting by the beach all day, writing, quenching thirst with juice in the other hand. Bare skinned and in a swimsuit, lounging and dipping into the smelting hot golden sand. Letting my skin bake into the brownest that it could possibly get. If it were up to me, I’d have coconut oil in my hair soaking into each strand hungrily. Squinting my eyes and looking up, I’d watch the movement of the sun all day as it glides across the sky from east to west, or up and down… whatever it is that it does. Time would go as slow as it possibly could go. I’d stare into the face of the distant horizon, thoughtless and unafraid. If it were up to me, I’d have an ardent romance and risk it all. I’d just twirl in trance to the staccato echoes of the sea, ’till who knows when, aimlessly.
I’m sitting here on the empty Jacuzzi staring at the ceiling with water droplets spritzing near my face, as I try to feel fulfilled. In my room, I spray all types of scents to calm my senses but it just numbs me down. I have every material thing that I want and I make a lot of money for a chick who claims to not need a lot. I turn on the bright blue therapy light that mimics sunlight to feel like I’m sitting under the sun. I meet a lot of people every day whom I don’t call my own. I have the love of my two parents but I want a big family that’s fifty times bigger and will have my back. I have the guy that adores me but I also want one who doesn’t. I’m climbing the capitalist ladder but I believe in socialist type stuff. I’m maintaining my status as a whatever, but it’s just killing me inch by inch. I don’t take pills, smoke, or drink to cope but that doesn’t mean I’m happier. I can’t follow spiritual leaders and luminaries who say pretty things because in the end they’re just humans like me. I can’t support any religions with an open heart because they talk too much of discipline, but I’m fueled by instinct and desire. I have realistic aspirations now and still want to do significant things for the future, but I don’t if I don’t have to. I can have kids if I want to but I may just let my body shut down. There are twelve months in a year and eight of them are already over and I can’t get the past three or four years back.
The voice tells me to get into the elevator and to go to a certain floor. I do so as told. Instinct tells me to walk down the hallway. There’s promise of a grand prize; the greatest thing, the highest goal. There’s supposed to be something that I’ve always wanted at the finish. I’m told to open the door. I do so.
And there you stand, behind that door
wearing a black and white tuxedo. Your chiseled face looking even sharper against the shadows. Your creamy skin and shiny hair, contrasting each other. Your glass-like eyes, contracting in the spotlight directed at you.
You are fully attentive and looking at me,
but with a look of worry. Wordlessly, you give a notion that you want me back, that you’re begging for me now. That you’re willing to disregard everything for me and that I could too, for you.
But there’s something unkind, untrustworthy, and cold about this whole new setup. There’s doubt brewing in my gut.
There’s an uneven tune playing in my ears.
And there’s a sad, tragic, unstoppable feeling,
that I wished it were true.
There’s a beautiful bird out in a forest. She flies her little wings up and down the hilly terrain near the glistening, cold Himalayas. They refer to her as Noori; this beautiful, colorful bird. On rare occasions they get a glimpse of her striking beauty. Yet always, they hear her tweeting her silly, sweet songs to herself. Tunes that echo across mountains, resonate through valleys, and penetrate through souls.
She makes me cry, this little bird.
I’d sacrifice a limb for her. I’d die for her.
There’s a little bird that sings her sweet songs in a forest. Her innocence is what lovers fall for. Her beauty is what poets write of.
who is my father.
Memories of snow in the summertime.
Days of crying undercovers and hungering for a drop of sunlight. Gray clouds looming over the Midwest and suffocating our souls; causing it to turn gray too. The skin turns into an ash like color, making you forget who you are. Depression is the perfect word to describe the winters here. It’s the loneliest feeling in the world when you go outside and see no one, and hear nothing. Frost killing the fields, and the roads are isolated with sparse traffic. We’re always alone out here. It’s been twenty-three years, and I’m still dealing with it. We walk the frozen roads with hands in our pockets, with flying snow for company.
But here I see you when I close my eyes, walking alone, walking towards me. Hands in your pockets too, and a scarf around your neck.
Your teeth crooked and yellow, your eyes… lost. Your skin pale and deadly, and your vibrant lips, cracked.
Your clothing unstylish and lame.
You are wordless, but I can see your breath in the freezing air.
Before me you stand, isolated, calling out to me… calling out to something,
while the arctic winds cry the loudest silence I’ve ever heard.
Still your face flickers in the depths of my mind. Still the blizzard howls midsummer,
reminding of my gray skin.
Aching for you.