Mirror Mirror

Mirror mirror on my vanity
Help me decipher all this insanity
For the tables have turned
And the mighty have fallen
And those who once left me
Are now the ones calling
Your confidants now confide in me
For your true colors they now see
And how funny I find it that they show their affection
Since now they’re alone and without your attention
I was here all along when your interest they wanted
But you tossed them aside and now they are haunted
You used them and left them alone by the sea
And just as I called it they ran back to me
And soon enough your small army will fall
Leaving you alone, once and for all

The Letter

She laid the letter on his desk, accompanied by his favorite sugar coated candies, and walked out. “He’ll be back” she said to herself, “they always come back.” It was true. Everyone who had ever hurt her, been dishonest, or left her life for any reason, all of them at some point had come back begging forgiveness and drenched in excuses. An email, a text message, a phone call, even a Facebook message; it was inevitable. Even people in high school who had stopped speaking to her at random had lost their ways in college and came crawling back. The message was always the same.
“Dear Friend, What an idiot I have been, your friendship was the best I ever had and times without you have been quite sad, please forgive my foolish ways, please remember the better days, I pledge to be a better friend, I pledge to tell the truth, I pledge that I am different, I swear I really need you.”
And she always forgave them. Her one vice was kindness; loyal to the point of liability, forgiving to a fault. She refused to see anything but the best in people and as such was often disappointed. She didn’t see people for who they were; she saw them for who she knew they would become; for who they could be. But that wasn’t who they were now, and to expect that of them was unfair. She was a pusher; she pushed people to their potential even when they didn’t want it, even when they could get there yet. She wanted everyone to be the absolute best they could be. It was because of this, that so many people came and went; the weak never made it. The strong ones saw this quality in her and thrived from it, always reaching for more. But the weak ones, they weren’t ready yet, not now, but they always came back. “He’ll be back” she told herself. “They always come back.”

One Stone at a Time

The red from the napkins stared her in the eyes as she diligently yet mindlessly rolled silverware. If he was half as special as she thought he was, then she had surely lost something great. When her alarm sounded in the morning, she merely laid there accepting the diatribe. She lost the will to move. She wanted to fall into the deep abyss of her pillows and never be found. She wanted to get so lost in her feelings that she might eventually become numb again for this pain was too much for her feeble heart to bear. Every ounce of her being ached. Her soul was screaming in agony yet few could hear her. Her eyes had lost the light that kept them alive. Her words were half hearted and whispered. Her smile was no where to be found. The world around her grew silent as she lost herself in the world of her broken spirit. She had never felt this kind of pain before. She felt as though she had lost part of herself. It was as if her legs had been removed yet she could still feel their pain as present as ever. She looked at the wreckage that had become her once organized life and fell apart. The ivory tower had crumbled beneath her and she stood amongst the rubble dumbfounded. To rebuild such a monument was impracticable and to forget it impossible. But how does one leave such a space empty? How does one start over from such a disaster? One stone at time, she told herself. You start one stone at a time until eventually you could start to rebuild. She reached down, with a slow and steady hand, and picked up a stone. She studied it, turned it over in her hand, closed her fist around it and felt its power. And so she began to clear the rubble, slowly but surely, one stone at a time.

Trophy Girl

Her eyes burned, her muscles hurt. It was five in the morning and she hadn’t slept that night. Thoughts of them kept her awake and she lay there crying. She couldn’t sleep knowing he was there, just one room away, hidden the silence of broken promises and shattered relationships. She was anxious, tense, almost manic at the moment. She wanted to get up and run, or scream or move. Anything to release what was welling up inside her. But she couldn't move. Every breathe she took was labored. Her body had no will left, no energy with which to continue running.
“I wouldn’t call it cheating; we’ll just say I was leading her on…” The song blared from the speakers and yet so eloquently reflected her life. He wanted his trophy girl and he got her. A shiny prize to place upon the mantel and show your friends. But like the trophy, she was beautiful and empty and so was the relationship they were staging. Empty. He couldn’t talk to her about politics or literature. She didn’t understand his poetry or prose. Their feelings for one another were shallow but easy and that’s just what they wanted. The McDonalds of relationships; fast, easy, cheap and ultimately something you regret buying later. It leaves you unsatisfied and longing for something substantial. I yearned for the day it would all fall apart, the day I could watch the stage lights dim and the actors take their final bows.

Dressed in Black

She was dressed in all black, as if there would be a funeral. Black shoes, black shirt, black pants. All black. Much like her life things seemed to come in darker shades these days. The people she thought were important had betrayed her; she was invisible to them now. A half smile, a fake wave; that’s what she was worth. She could trust no one. Everyone’s eyes were hiding something. Everyone’s words were insincere. In a way, her attire was quite appropriate. There would be a funeral. A funeral for all those she held dear who were no longer with her. They had replaced her with the fake illusions of a life they knew they didn’t want. But it was easier to have this fake life than to have a real one and risk part of themselves to be part of something greater. People didn’t want great things anymore. People wanted what was easy. But easy was fake and unrewarding; just like they were. Everyone was fake. She was alone in her own reality and suddenly realized why no one took the leap. It was lonely on the other side of things. Reality was a lonely place. So she sits in her reality looking attentively at all the faces once familiar to her, waiting, so patiently waiting, for the day someone would join her. But some how she knew that day would never come. They loved their fake lives, they were blind to their own true feelings and they always would be. She would spend eternity alone in her own reality; but at least it was honest here.

Running

35…40…46…49…52…56…63…67…72…75! A steady 75 strides a minute, second level resistance and 24 stride length. She had to run. To run as fast as her body would let her; She had to get away. She wanted to run faster than her emotions could keep up with her. She wanted to run so fast all she could feel was the burning of her calves as she forced them in elliptical motions until her lungs finally gave way and she would collapse. She imagined him watching her run. What would he say? Would he see her power, would he feel it and think how heroically determined she was? Or would he, as he so often did, look right through her and see that she was simply running. Running away from all the emotions she tried so hard not to have anymore. She gave up emotions years ago and after a mild sabbatical in counseling, forced herself to feel again. The only problem was that she seemed to forget how to control her emotions; to not be consumed by them. He had done this to her and she knew he could see it, feel it just as she did and that scared her. Why couldn’t she just let him go?

Trapped

She hadn’t showered in two days and she turned the water up about twelve degrees above her comfort. The cascade of heat burned the sensitive skin of her face and she was grateful for it. It was comforting to feel something stronger than the rage of emotions exploding inside her. Mindlessly she began the routine. Shampoo, front right corner on the left; pour one ounce, close bottle, replace on tub, lather hair, let sit. Face wash; she could feel the dead skin eroding her face and reached for the exfoliating scrub on the right in contrast to the micro foamer on the left. Scrub, scrub until it bleeds, remove the death from your face she told herself as her face began to burn in the combination of salicylic acid and overly hot water. Rinse the death and lather away. Conditioner, front beside the shampoo, quarter size squeeze, close bottle, replace, cover scalp, let sit. Loffa, body wash, lather, wash away the pain. Let the drain carry all her sorrow to the seas, let her start over. This had become her life; mere steps in a process. She was a routine and she couldn’t break it. She wanted so much to escape from conformity of her life but she was trapped.

Right Again

She watched them walk through the archway of the door into the hallways where they would wait for the elevator. She watched them painfully as only a few days ago this would have been her. She always walked him to his car. But tonight, his interest lie elsewhere and she would never again be the girl waiting with him for the elevator. He didn’t call her anymore; they didn’t share their ideas and dreams. She had been replaced ever so easily and no one even noticed. With a slow release of breathe she had swiftly become the third wheel in their entourage of two; the entourage that once was hers. She had lost him without warning or explanation and he didn’t even acknowledge the swap. He still smiled as he had before and presented himself as nothing had changed. Just like a man to be an asshole and not even know it she thought. It was integrated into their nature, they didn’t even notice when it happened. He had turned out just like everyone else, just like he promised he wouldn’t. “I’m different” he use to plead “I’m real, genuine even” and she had been dumb enough to believe him knowing that at some point he would surely prove her right. But she wanted so much to be wrong this time, for him to really be who he said he was. She hated always being right about them. She hated herself for being foolish enough to ever believe differently. But mostly she hated him for giving her hope.

A Shot in the Dark

I felt like shit and his shot in the dark book wasn’t helping. Not only was the story line about a depressed drug addict who at this point in the story was turning her life around but the idea of the book made me think of him. Every turn of the page reminded me that at some point not too long ago he had walked into a book store and whether it was his sole purpose or not, he had bought me a book of which he knew nothing but one in which he saw promise; a shot in the dark he called it. So with every line I envision him in a book store some where in Concord MA diving through hundreds of books looking for the perfect shot in the dark just for me. Perhaps I made it more than it was; may be he just walked in and said “sure, this one has a nice cover” but some how I knew that wasn’t true. The way in which he had described it to me as the book, along with two others, were passed to my hands made me believe it meant more to him. He had asked me twice before I had a chance to start reading it how it was. I hadn’t talked to him in days and it was starting to get to me. He use to call me everyday and with the exception of a short two days over winter break when he didn’t call, I had talked to him for hours everyday since November. Now here in the chill of mid-January, I sat on a friends couch reading a shot in the dark obsessing over the fact that it was Saturday morning and he hadn’t called me since Tuesday night. I saw him Wednesday at my apartment with my roommate who threw herself at him in such an obvious manner it made me physically ill. Then, on Thursday, I was going to see a friend after class and he walked with us. But it wasn’t the same. I missed him, his voice, his ideas, the way we talked until two in the morning about how the universe was created and how small we were. In our last conversation, he told me he felt we should have met at Harvard. I would have been three rows back vigorously typing, and would have absent mindedly commented very insightfully on what the professor had said and he would have been so intrigued that he would have waited to meet me after class. He knew that an amazing relationship would have sparked right then and never ended. Perhaps his subconscious realization had scared him and now he was hiding from me. At any rate, I miss him and I wish he’d call me.

Poisoned

I’ve been poisoned
Poisoned by your thoughts and fears
Poisoned by your anger
Your inhibitions consume me until I feel sick to my stomach
Your fears have made me paranoid and I can’t trust anyone
You have poisoned my spirit and polluted my mind
My heart is weary and weak
I’m angry with my self for allowing this
For drinking your vile wine
I lost control of my own thoughts and will and you took advantage
You made me untrusting, unforgiving, and afraid
I began to question everyone, everyone but you
But I see now that it’s been you all along

Distance

Distance, all this distance, always distant in your heart
Silence, all this silence, always silent in your mind
Believe what you wish and say what you will
I am always questioning what is real
I can’t tell when you’re lying
Or when the answer is true
I can’t understand what’s going on with you
It’s one thing to my face
And another when you’re gone
And I can’t help but wonder
How long it’s been going on
It’s all smoke and mirrors
All masks and facades
All twist and turns and fakeness
I CAN’T TAKE THIS
I’m done!
I wish things were different
I wish things didn’t change
But thats the way of life
Things never stay the same
So I’m letting go, I’ve lost control
I don’t have time for this
I don’t have time to make memories that I’ll never miss