Without it, Life is Wasted Time

At six, Steve Winwood introduced me to the power of crying when I was deeply touched. At 22, I could no longer listen without allowing him to repeatedly break my elementary heart with that divine sound; without remembering how hard I tried to talk some sense into my father and without reliving in my mind, the irregular rhythm my pulse took while hearing him tell my stepsister how much he loved her while I stood beside them yearning for him to voice the same towards me. At 28, I began letting go; the wishes to cradle the poignant past with all the fibers left of my being, transient; finally fleeting. And now, James Vincent McMorrow revitalizes the power that crying holds upon you when you are profoundly saddened by the involuntary forfeiture of things once capable of love during the good-natured, infantile hours of your life. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to resist and fight back, I guess certain things will always stop you dead in your tracks; you’ll always be looking for that same higher love you still haven’t found. I accept and now know that the past is a place worthy of visiting not permanently living, but the child in us all never dies and deserves to exist somewhere beside us: either clinging on to us while we go through the motions, or waiting in the wings to offer us comfort when the promises that we are after remain broken as we continue facing our uncertainties while standing out there independently in all of our yearning, and wondering if there must be someone who’s feeling for us.

Past-Life-Line

I know why those who love me continuously tell me to change, to be more upbeat and happy, but I wonder if they know that circumstances in one's life tend to introduce them to comfortably, uncomfortable sensations. Sensations that in their own right, stain the past, present and in some cases the future, too. It's like Shakespeare said, "To thine own self be true." I am true to all that is Neda. I can’t apologize for the presence of incomplete human emotions in others. I am for the tenth time in my short life, willing to be open while I seek the stability raped of me by others; others whom I don't know whether to love or hate and whom I love and hate. I find it one of life's greatest conundrums; a lot of people just wrap a Band-Aid around a cut and move forth, others are told not to cry about it and, if you will, man up, but I, I just keep cutting. When I bleed, that's when I feel. Pouring peroxide on a wound, for me, is an excruciatingly, uninviting sensation though it lasts but a meager instant. It's the dismembering and remembering of my father's spirit. It's remembering the past, documenting its wraithlike wind, rewriting it, revitalizing it and allowing it to tap into its own memory, while the scent of cigarettes cinched into my grandmother's silk nightgown remains on the tip of my nose which no longer reserves that place nestled into her deep clavicles while I sleep. It's a sense of comfort tied to the struggle of trying to duplicate these things, knowing that the past is the only feat that's impossible for anyone to ever conquer. I keep asking myself if there is a way to make others understand how necessary the magnificent, albeit at times unimpressive, minutes of my past are obligatory to my survival, and now I see that there may never be a way and frankly, I no longer care to question if one is even necessary.

I am this life.
I am here to shout it from the rooftops.
The past is the only lifeline that some of us have.
I want to secure my thoughts a valid presence, here at this moment in this particular life; attachments to the past MAKE US WHO WE ARE.
I don’t need to feel this intense desire that something needs to be removed, discounted, or let go of in order for me to move forth.
It was something not even the most privileged people will ever be given the chance to experience. It taught me sorrow and without sorrow, I would have never realized how badly I wanted peace. It taught me peace and without peace, I would have never become the empathetic, kind person I am.
I am independent.
I am my father’s daughter.
I am Margrit Khankhanian’s granddaughter.
I am worthy of happiness.
I am deeply in love with feeling anything.

I live, breathe and dream the past; and that, that is the kind of excruciating sensation I am faithful to no matter how many times it hits; every morning, day or night, when I realize it is time to wake up, live or sleep.

Zola Jesus - Skin

This is going to be quite possibly the hardest assignment I have ever had to accomplish. I know that I will relive all the tears I had shed in order to write these poems in the first place, and I know that I will shed many more in order to immortalize my past within my thesis. I pray that afterwards, I will find myself in the most calming of places. I will walk away a learned poet, with skin tougher than it has ever been, hopelessly devoted to my adolescence; having found it a home within bound pages in which it will always stay loud, carefree and young.

The Truth Hurts

I wonder if it'll ever stop; this decade-old blue funk I've been in crisscrossed by the most minute inklings of my own, personal pacificity. I am hopeful and more productive than I have been in a long time and still my subconscious willingly opens its arms, welcoming the tricks that this world plays upon the strings of my heart without any remorse.
I've been told to keep my true life quiet, but I can't; this is me. I speak about it all, everything that you find negative within me in hopes that someday, someone can find the courage to do it too. I have been told to make change happen instead of sulking. I want the life I know I deserve, and I'm here to tell you that I will never stray away from exposing what I deem necessary. I am not a victim but I am very sad and I refuse to be ashamed because I am. This is me and it always has been. I am no longer the one who waits for change to happen, and I will never again let you tell me that the reason things remain the same is because of any wrongdoing on my part. I am deeply trying, here, and at this very moment, there is nothing, nothing, NOTHING left for you to say.

Can I Ever Get It Back?

I used to write short stories while everything exciting was happening to those around me. If I cared to join them then the excitement in my life would have never seen a chance. I believe that I had something that couldn't be touched. Something that kept me speaking; tangled in cherished discourse with characters I had never met in real life, even though if this took the shape of my real life, I would never have one qualm with it. Birthing the climatic situations of their lives came easy; it's fortifying any present execution of them that has become trying.
Writing began when I was a happy sixth grader; when the excitement of being in junior high and then high school prompted daydreaming in class about the crush I had that present hour, which then allowed my characters to share a kiss or act out that teenage relationship that I wouldn’t see until the tenth grade and then mourn its loss for what seemed like forever after. Writing began when I was impressionable, morphed into something necessary to survive when I no longer was and died when I realized there was nothing left to fight for.
Every year when I clean out my past stored in plastic bins upon plastic bins, I come across that black pee chee folder torn at its fold, filled with 150 stories I spent writing either in Mr. Kidder's American Government or at home on Wednesday nights watching Party of Five, while my parents hollered in excitement at the NBA playoffs emanating through that little Toshiba television set that will live long with an unsavory reputation, yet with a twinge of something that will always make me smile in service of it.
All I heard then was the sound of happiness. I only wish pleasant stimulation could hit me the way it did then, now.

It's Been 365 Days

You have brought me the most insatiable appetite for love. You are the man I've always dreamt of and written about. You make me want nothing more than to write the best fairytale ending that any story has ever seen. It’s been 365 Days. No other man has ever crossed this threshold and I thank you for loving me longer than they ever thought possible. Thank you for believing in my worthiness. Thank you for allowing me to be myself, and thank you for being the man that I miss even when you're sitting right beside me. You fuel the fire that resides deep within my longing to taste childhood again. You calm me down, gently, each time I realize I can’t. You make me want to pursue my pipe dreams and to be better at everything and to everyone that I have ever let down. You build me up with the cognizance that my writing is of respectable substance all the while trusting that I am incapable of ever having let anyone down. I am at fault more than I led on. I admit this here, without retraction. I am one stubborn woman. I have major anxiety and dislike when you try to fix it. I react in ways a reserved lady never should. I am an angry little bitch. I have a major crush on you. I am thankful for all that had happened before I came around, even though I know it hurt. I fear things like the future, but I embrace all the uncertainty that comes with this strange love. This is one rollercoaster I’d wait hours to ride without a Fastpass. Here’s to waiting as many years possible together. Happy anniversary to you, my 6ft-something pollywog. ♥

First Boyfriend

September 5, 2000 11:53am

"If you’re going to cheat on your boyfriend make sure you break up with him first, you ugly bitch!"

As I turned to see my friends walk back to class without a care — I came to realize, as I rubbed the streaks of mascara off my face, that my life would never be the same.

I remember lying under the covers when
our premature, first autumn began to fall; an October
night, pale as my lips were cold — abandoned by

blood's refusal to play warmth into November. This
hand evicted out from your glove; my father’s panic
found reprieve. Those childhood dreams of falling
down had come back; hitting the ground - safety
net occupied.

*
November 11, 2000 9:14pm

“I never meant to hurt you. Kissing him meant nothing. You’re the one I want.”

Your flesh at Seventeen— I wanted to relish every inch.
I remember rainy days where we’d seek refuge under your
umbrella, standing on the senior quad in all its emptiness, our
tongues submissive to lunch hour’s destiny. My skin pervasive
in resting eau de cologne, your neck stained in the hue of
habitual love letters — prime accessories in marking
clothed, sexual territory.

*

November 11, 2001 5:13pm

“This isn’t going anywhere. All we do is fight and plus, you’ve yet to let me fuck you.”

I remember your house. Careful in her home, I gained back
your mother’s trust after breaking your virginal heart. I remember
the night I slept over: running away with lies left on my home’s
answering machine, twirling spaghetti, sipping raspberry wine,
listening to wind chimes in blind rapture with the dry Santa Anas.

You undressed my inexperienced teenage frame.
Fearful as your finger let itself slide, I remembered the stained-glass butterfly missing its wing.

*
July 20, 2003 4:37pm

“I’ll call you back.”
“No you won’t.”
“I can’t take your shit anymore. I can’t talk right now with you harping at me. I’ll call you back.”

I was tested on young love. The welcome to cheat—wrapped in those
muscular arms, long through frayed edges of his cotton t-shirt— consented.
I can say I suffered along with you though you’d swiftly overturn my parole,
calling it a bluff, sentencing my capacity to assault fledgling emotions to further
rehabilitation.

*
October 11, 2011 6:37pm

I have always been worth waiting for.


I’ve been waiting 8 years, 3 months and 21 days as if old
photos and once pleasant Valentine grams are so inclined to ask.
Those childhood dreams of falling down have come back; hitting
forgiving ground – safety net easy, vacant only to be occupied by
last boyfriend’s love.

The phone number you never dialed is no longer in amenable service
to the moments we spent — they were nothing more than fairytales you
told to keep me captive.