An Ode to my Week

This is that kind of week.
I shouldn't have to explain what kind of miserable terrible kind of week it is,
But I just did.

The week that begins with Monday.
The week that ends with Monday.
The never-ending cycle of doom that sucks us into it's misery.
It's that type of week.

This type of week,
The Monday type of week,
Makes me think all kinds of violent thoughts that include knives and death and murder and pulling out your eyes.
It's the type of week that makes me want to stomp my feet and scream and throw my hands up in defeat.

I hate these types of weeks,
These Monday weeks.
If I could have one wish,
I would get rid of the miserable terrible Monday kind of weeks like this.
Each week would be the type of Friday week,
The one that lets you take a breath of fresh air.
A Friday week,
The kind of weeks that let you free.
One of those weeks right before a vacation where you'll have too little to do.
That's the kind of week I wish to seek.
One that won't make me stomp, or scream, or throw my hands up in defeat,
But no!
It had to be a stupid Monday type of week.

Love: Expressed Through Open Palms, Closed Fist, and Tight Lips

Am I worse?
Do I hit harder, if not literally, figuratively?
Do the imprints last longer?
Do I say sorry?
Am I like him?
Am I worse

I don't want to be like that.
I can't be like that.
I am nice.
I am kind,
But my hand hit her skin.
Am I worse?

What kind of mark did I leave?
I see your face frozen in shock,
In pain,
In front of me.
Can I be becoming this monster?
Can I feel this rage boiling inside of me for no reason?
Can I feel this hatred boiling inside of me,
Exactly where love should be?
Will I be an empty chasm, like him?
Will I be worse?
Am I worse?

I don't want to be like that.
I love you.
Open palmed,
I know it didn't sting your flesh,
But I can't see your heart.
I can't see the heart that I already know is bruised, broken, and cut.
Did I make it worse?
Please tell me that you didn't see him when you looked at me,
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palm.

I know what it looked like,
The monster inside.
I've seen it for too long.
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Closed Fist.
Another gash sliced through your heart.
Please tell me this one wasn't deeper.
Please tell me this one wasn't worse.
Please tell me this one wasn't the worst you've ever felt.
Please tell me you'll forgive me.

I promise I'll never do it again.

Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palmed,
Closed fist.
We are the same,
Aren't we?

Raising Awareness

This is for one of my close friends who is now getting out of a bad situation. This tale is a little bit late for domestic violence awareness month, which is in October, but better late than never. Thanks fort taking the time to read this!

Here you go:

Baggage. I can handle it. You will always be my friend. Do you understand that? I am your friend unconditionally. I can’t call myself a friend and say stop because you’ve got a secret.

I have a few myself.

I will stand by you, and if you need a shoulder to cry on I’m here.

I’m sorry that I didn’t know.

I will never blame you for not telling me.

That smile of yours is enchanting, can you really cover it so easily?

Of course, so can I.

Do you remember the first time we met?

Of course you do. You’re the one who reminded me.

I said some things that I never meant it, but I never thought we’d be this close. You and your beautiful blue eyes that always escape me. You and your red hat. You and your blonde hair. You will always be beautiful to me.

I never knew.

But let me tell you a secret: I’ve seen it too, on the wall, with those fist. I’m so proud of you for being brave.

You are braver than I could ever be. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.

I know you’re away now, and I know you’ve still got that smile, but I know what’s underneath it, and even if I’ve never seen it on you before; I’ve seen it on me.

I imagined someday I’d be telling this story, my story, to a lover who’d never understand, not a friend who had it worse than me.

I will always be there for you.

I am part of your team. Don’t give up while I’m here.

I don’t know if you’ve shed tears. I’ll imagine you have. I know I did. I know I think about it every day, and I know it’s going to follow me.

When I was little I used to sing a little song about them getting in another fight. That was commonplace in my home, and I’ve heard things that no child should ever hear. I know you share that with me, and if it’s bad on me, I know it’s worse on you, and I guess that’s why I felt the need to say this: I will be here forever. I will never hurt you as long as you promise to do the same.

I don’t want a wedding. I don’t want a marriage, and I think what I’ve seen is part of that. Maybe you think the same. I know you’ve seen the pain. There is nothing worse in the world than that pain.

It’s the kind of pain that makes you kind of wish that it happened to you. Maybe you could take it better. I can stand up for myself, she can’t. I did it, and I’ll imagine you did too. They’re so much bigger, but mine stopped when faced with me. Did yours?

Mine showed no remorse. Even now.

I never want that. Ever.

I know you don’t either.

Let me stay by your side. You can cry, and I won’t say a word. I don’t care who is trying to hurt you, let me support you. Even today, I know these are words I can probably never say to your face, but if by any chance you see this, and you know it’s me. Know I’ll always be by your side.

I will be your friend unconditionally, and forever. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for putting that smile upon your face. Thank you for being you.

Love,
Me

 

Are you Pregnant?

I feel like only a writer would be asked this question, I mean, unless you actually are pregnant, but trust me, I'm not.

Ok, maybe I should explain. It all started two months ago [insert dramatic music here]. My friend, Katie, and I were walking down the hallway talking, well, panicking about our characters (NANO!). As we were walking into the gym to meet our other non-writer friend, Rachel*, I was stuck on the idea that I would have a character named Tame. Katie, on the other hand, was arguing that I choose a different name. She hated my character's name! But, it was for good reason, her exact words were, "Tame means calm and domesticated. That is the exact opposite of everything you want in your protagonist!"

Anyhow, as we were walking to our non-writer friend, I stubbornly responded with, "But I still want to name her Tame."

Which I guess, taken out of context, does sound like I have a child. (Books are children.) I turned around, eyes wide with a face that apparently scarred Rachel for life, along with some prompt screaming, which made her begin to profusely apologize.

So, to diffuse to awkward situation, I screamed, "Tame!" across the gymnasium and walked away.

Sidenote: I'm actually (against Katie's advice) writing a story where my protagonist's name is Tame. I'll share it with you guys sooner or later.

*Names have been changed

Liking vs. Passion

If you've read my other post, you'll notice I've mentioned: a) I have no idea what to do with my life b) I want writing to be a career.

I feel like that's the case for most writers, if not all writers. I think we all can agree that we want to become authors so our voices can be heard (or at least so that our writing can be read). One thing I'm noticing about me is that writing is the only thing I'm truly passionate about. I can tell because out of the ten zillion (slight over exaggeration) things I have to do tonight, (mainly because I've been procrastinating all day, mostly while messing with blogger's template) I choose to do this.

Ok, let's take for instance ASL. I like/love ASL. It is an amazingly beautiful language that I feel very blessed to be able to take a part in. I have met so many amazing people that I could've never become friends with without ASL, and I am relatively fluent in ASL (when I put my mind to it), and technically, right about now, I should be preparing for a giant ASL lecture thing (for lack of better term), but I'm not. I continue to choose writing and reading over doing what I like.

For my "day job" I'm planning on doing something in the medical field most likely forensics (unless I change my mind, again.), but as I was reading into becoming a pathology assistant, a nurse, a physician's assistant, etc. I'm noticing one pattern: I. Don't. Care. Yes, it looks cool. Maybe I'd do it if I had to, but what I really want to do is write, and that's why I'm writing this random rant here because I wanted to share with all of you what was going on in my mind: a conversation about how I have no passion for half of the things I think I want to do. Yep, so...
Thanks for reading!

G.R.A.Y. Part 4

I felt the need to put an introduction here because well, I didn't want to just  throw you back into the story, and I did give an introduction for the other three, so...

Here you go:

            “Do you hear that?” They travelled as a pact, sensing the movement together.

            “One of the ten are out?”        

            “That’s why they sent us up." 

            They communicated through facial expressions. They could not run the risk of the ten hearing more than needed. They had learned long ago that only one sound should be heard: their feet as they pounded the ground. They always started in a walk and kept pace with their prey's footsteps.

                                                             -        -        -       -

I made sure to convey nothing on my face. It was my first night serving with them, I would be feared as I always desired. I had trained for this, and I would continue to train to become as near as the elders as possible. The older ones in the pact always travelled near the front. I was in the back, no one really acknowledged our presence. We were there to observe. I had seen them act on the camera, but never in person before. I knew the others would be watching, envious of class 14’s presence among the rest of their footsteps.

I was proud. If we passed this week’s training, we could become official members, but only five would be chosen this year, less than the past. They are more efficient with less. If I did not join them, I would forever be only spare change, used only when they were in need of others to join. I proudly wore my gray coating over my skin and the black pieces of plastic I had placed into my eyes. I am one of them.

They had given us the coating and plastic to look like them. It was only temporary, but they, the true members, had the features installed into them. Their skin was naturally a much darker grey then the rest of us, and it was permanent. They would always be a Gray. Their eyes were almost complete black, piercing, awe-inspiring.

I had been trained to admire them, perhaps I was ignorant, but it didn’t matter because I was on the chase. I could be a hero.

Daddy

Daddy, daddy, why do you have to be so mean?
 
The road was cold, sprinkled with evergreen trees, and the cars were scarce. The evening sky was a winter purple, a perfect night for snow. Two hours ago, my biggest concern had been whether or not I would be able to sleep in tomorrow morning. Now, it's whether or not I’ll see their trademark red and blue shimmering behind us.
 
I can hear the banging in the trunk.
 
Daddy, I don’t want them to take you away.
 
I hold my breath like the person in the trunk, motionless, breathless. I wait until my vision gets blurry, then my mouth flies open, and I’m sucking in as much air as I can.
 
He's staring ahead. I know he won't dare look me in the eye. It doesn’t matter anyways, even if he tried, I wouldn’t be able to look into his. The windows are clean and clear, the way she always leaves them.
 
His eyes are an icy blue, the same as mine. I feel pressure on my chest.
 
He’s cold and distant because he has to be.
 
He told me to get into the car. I heard the screaming, I knew what had happened, this time it had gone too far. I pointed my own blue eyes at the wooden floor that I already knew I’d never see again. I can’t lie and say that I never knew that one day, this day would come.
 
Daddy, daddy, you make it so hard.
I want to love you. I really do, but please, please don't just give me those same excuses.
 
I glance out the rearview mirror, not a car behind us. We’re home free.
 
I look at the back of his head, his bushy black and grey hair, and I close my eyes.
 
Dear Daddy,
I never wanted to wish this on you, understand that, even the times I did, I never wanted this. I can't help but watch those evergreen trees. I am one of them, standing tall until I am taken down. You have made me strong, but I fear I am breaking.
 
I sit on the cold leather, hands tucked between my jeans and the seat. I take a quick look at him pulling my trembling hands into my lap. My face feels hot, although the car is cold. I slide my fingers over the smooth surface hidden in my palms. The gift you gave me not long ago. Can I take charge?
 
I tap the receiver 3 times.
 
I love you.
 
I turn my head towards the window, glancing at the rearview mirror, tears sliding down my cheeks. I know you can hear my breath getting sharper, shorter.
 
Daddy, I’m sorry.
 
This is the first time that I’ve got to sit in the passenger seat. Years of begging, and it’s now. I look down at my feet, my toes are just skimming the black plastic mat on the ground.
 
Someday I’ll be as tall as him. Feet planted on the ground, having to push my chair back because I’m so tall.
 
Daddy, I don’t want to be like you.
 
Or maybe I’ll be this petite little girl forever.
 
Red and blue flashing down the street.
 
Maybe I’ll be just like mommy.
 
Daddy, why?
 
“Daddy?” I whisper, “You know you have to pull over.” I can hear the tears in my voice. I can feel his eyes on me, taking me in one last time. His breaths are heavy as he pulls to the side of the road. Two officers come, one to his side, and one to mine. They wait until he’s out of the car to get me out.
 
“You’re a brave girl, you know that?” The officer says offering me his hand. My legs are numb. I bury my wet face into him, he hoists me up, although I’m much too big to carry. I know my Daddy will watch me with his icy blue eyes, but I won’t look. This will have to be our last goodbye.
 
Dear Daddy,
You shouldn't have done that, not to mommy.
 
Goodbye Daddy.