On The Edge

Standing on the edge of normalcy,

With the perfect smile, and the perfect words.

Don’t look too long, don’t ask too much,

Look away, and pretend you don’t see the secrets there.

 

Waltz blissfully along, and laugh at the jokes,

With the perfect smile, and the perfect words.

Grin a little wider, don’t frown too much,

Don’t question all.

 

Smile a little wider,

Wear the perfect dress, and the perfect crown.

Don’t fail. Don’t fall. Don’t cry. Don’t call.

Be the friend that’s perfectly calm.

 

Stand on the edge of normalcy,

Glaze the mask, and shine the crown.

Send a smirk to the murmurs,

Quirk a brow for the others,

Don’t fail. Don’t fall. Don’t cry. Don’t call.

 

K.N.O.W.

Thursday, February 11, 2016. 20:55 hrs.

Not Quite The First

When I first saw you,

You were little more to me,

Than a boy in short pants,

With skinny, hairy legs;

You had eyes that told too much,

And you were just another “project” of sorts,

My best-friend aimed to save.

We were young, and brazen, she and I,

And thought all the broken were ours to fix.

Young, and brazen.

 

When I first looked at you,

It was the summer of ’69.

No, I jest—you know my humour too well,

Us both ’94 babies who aimed things at twenty-one;

We were walking the cemented pillars

In our colonial best, my best-friend and I,

And you’d just graduated from a project to be salvaged,

To a boy with beautiful eyes.

I laughed in perfect humour

(So I wouldn’t have to roll my eyes),

But you walked by—

With the ghost of your name still on our lips.

That day, I found out, she was right.

You did have beautiful eyes;

Butterscotch, and amber,

(And that famous whiskey-brown the romance novels talk of,

When the sun caught your eyes).

I turned away, and poured that whiskey down the drain,

But the aftertaste of butterscotch,

Still burned my tongue.

 

When I first noticed you,

It was the year of ’09;

Standing on rough stairs

In pants that hid your knees,

With your back to the door, and the folds of long pants,

Sat neatly round your ankles.

You weren’t quite her project anymore,

So I smiled a rare smile,

Acknowledged your fine eyes,

And tasted whiskey doused in butterscotch.

 

When I first loved you,

It must still have been the year of ’09—

With that door against your back,

And fine eyes that asked too much.

I’d sipped too much whiskey,

Off a glass pane I couldn’t even touch;

But I did know right then,

Before I relearned sober,

That for anything you couldn’t ask me,

And all the things you wouldn’t ask for

Because you’d learned that wanting was too much,

I’d pour myself another whiskey,

And lace it with butterscotch

(The one flavour I learned to savour)

Because I liked the sunshine in your eyes,

And I’d be damned if I let you think

The only thing you would ever get if you asked for it,

Were rain clouds when it flooded.

 

When I first fractured,

I’d barely turned nineteen,

But I knew then, what I know now,

That I’d fix me just right,

So what we’d be all right,

Because ‘though you weren’t quite the first,

And neither was I,

You were still the only first,

Whose eyes did all the right asking,

And I’d be damned if I didn’t stay,

And say all that mine had promised.

 

K.N.O.W. Friday (morning), November 6, 2015. 03:15 hrs to 04:26 hrs.

 

 

 

One Thousand, Eight Hundred, and Twenty Five Days…and then some.

Return often and take me,

Beloved sensation, return and take me–

When memory of the body awakens,

And old desire again runs through the blood;

When the lips and skin remember,

And the hands feel as if they touch again.

C.P. Cavafy

Return; 1709

It has been five years, perhaps more, since I first learned to love you. That is, over sixty months, two hundred and sixty weeks, and even more days since I discovered my capacity to love.

It has not been easy, it has not been sweet, nor neat, nor clean. Five years of carrying two. Two hundred and sixty weeks of refusing to choke, or crumble. All for you to destroy each year’s work, each month’s toil, each week’s sweat, each day’s trudge, each night’s un-poured tears with fears, jests, and indifference? Silly games, and adolescent angst?

By now, I should be angry; I should be hurt, or upset, or weary, but I have known weariness, and worn hurt, and been the face of anger for too long to feel those now. In their place is a pleasant apathy. One that I will perhaps never tell you of, because a part of me does still care about the things that weigh you down at nights, but these are the things that change a person. They craft a glass wall that would bring pleasure to even the most blinded glassblower’s eyes…a hazy, translucent wall–dyed crimson at its centre, swirling a kaleidoscope of blues, and blacks beyond that crimson, until there is nothing but the glistening sparkle of crystal–with only hints of yellow forming a silver-lining along its uneven, but smooth surface.

You are not to blame. Well, not entirely. There is me. There is the 17 year old boy who taught a five year old things she should not know. A mother whose best skill was not asking questions she did not want the answers to. Friends who did not have the capacity to return what they could not understand. And perhaps, even others.

You see, it is not that I am angry, or hateful. Not even that I am petty, and strangely enough, not that I do not understand why you are, the way you are, or that I do not love you. I simply. Just no longer. Care.

Sigh. Such a waste of a pretty quote.

Do not return to me.

Sincerely,

There are limits.

Note: To be read with a pinch of salt, and probably a few other seasonings. There is such a thing as venting. :)