0084
Human
if i tell you a secret,
can you keep it?
shhh, they can't know
about it just yet, OK?
i want to be the one to
tell them what is in my
head so shhh...
it isn't really a secret but
it is a confession of things
that people may not know,
nor should they so shhh...
Just keep this little secret
for me and be my living
journal, please... just, shhh.
if i lean in close and
whisper so quietly that
you're not even sure I spoke
into your ear, do you think
you'd know just how secret
this thing is? do you think you
could just keep quiet for a
little bit? maybe longer? i
think you could and so
i'll tell you but shhh...
my little secret is actually quite
large and very scary to me and
i hope that you can handle such
horribly big news, but if you can't
just tell me and please try and stay
quiet about it because if you can't
stand this secret, how can anyone
else? so, shhh...
i just want someone to know that
i am actually a little bit human and
actually have problems and sometimes
need to take a step back from life and
just take some time for me and i
might make some bad decisions but
please shhh... they can't know this
little secret. this mark on my name.
honestly, i've lied. i'm not a little
bit human... but, shhhh. the truth is
so much bigger and really needs you
to just stay quiet and shhh...
truthfully, i am human.
shhh...
Artist
She leaned in close to me once upon a time and
whispered in my ear that she wanted to see herself as
I saw her. She wanted me to paint an image with my
words and my emotions that would possibly show
what I saw when I looked at her. I could only
smile softly and tell her that I couldn't do it because
I see how I see and she sees how she sees and we will
never be right because our truths are not the truth to
any other except to us.
And I wish I knew how she had looked in that
instant of denial, but I had turned away and refused to
look back for fear of seeing something akin to
pain in her honey eyes.
Yet now I sit in this room and stare at her picture,
wondering what I would have written if I were to
do as she asked. The only words the flow to mind
are ones I do not love and cannot comprehend, which
just brings one constant word forward and it scares
me because I honestly cannot understand this word.
It's short and it's meaning is understood for the most
part but when applied to something so personal as her or
any other living person in my life I suddenly cannot
remember what I had been taught about this word nor
an example of it besides her and him and you and them.
What does it mean to be so lost, so dazed, that you have
no idea who is really who anymore and who is causing you
to have such thoughts and to be cast in such shadows of
doubt and loss? I know that this word - this single word that
can describe all of this and so much more - is the word that
I would use as my paintbrush if I were to honestly sit and
write about her as I can see her, through this haze.
This paintbrush of a word would be quite unique in that
it's bristles would be harsh and soft and ruined but perfect and
it's handle would be decorated with past paint and paint that has
not been used yet and probably never will be in the future. It will
be of a valuable wood that everyone walks upon and cannot see
it's value - even the painter. The brush is relatively cheap, and easy
thing to obtain and explain, but no one will be able to truly
understand it, least of all her or myself, but it will be the word
that so perfectly defines her and would probably shape my
words into a new masterpiece that is lost on myself and most
all who would ever view it. This magic word that everyone knows
but probably never thinks much of.
This short word that I throw around uselessly but very rarely
notice for it's true meaning. This word that consumes her life,
her spirit, any thought of her or for her, and is a wall between her
heart and the true world in an attempt to keep herself safe and secure.
This word that is this confusion, this daze, this
darkness, this clarity in this endless night.
This Chaos that is hers and can only be defined in this
word that is her word alone and none others as far as
I will most likely ever know.
Connection
No one is here with me and I'm
standing alone in this crowd.
I don't know why I cam here, to
this lonely place of memories and
pain --- maybe I was just hoping to
c o n n e c t to something - and I know
that pain hurts the most and maybe
I hoped it would be enough to make
me feel like I belong. But I feel more
lost than ever and I want to cry
but not a l o n e, not again.
They walk right past me, chatting to
the people next to them or on their
phones - too d i s t r a c t e d to notice a
girl who has nowhere to go and no one to
go to but does have a n e e d to be part
of s o m e t h i n g.
My own phone feels too heavy in
my pocket and I begin to think of
you and almost call you - even though
I know I wouldn't say a word because
then you might hear the t e a r s in my
voice and would ask me what's w r o n g.
I know I wouldn't answer and you would
just stay on the phone and l i s t e n to me
cry. And I know that should make me feel
better, but I know that I wouldn't because
I can h e a r you whispering the words I've
been thinking and I know I'll just add to
your p r o b l e m s.
So I know that I'll just stand in this
crowd and listen to them talk to someone who
matters to them and listen to the w o r d s
you haven't said but are in my head.
I'll listen to you w h i s p e r softly into the phone
" I w i s h y o u w e r e h e r e . "
1s & 0s
I never really expected to see
her face, nor did I ever hope to.
I actually was quite content
just picturing her as some faceless
entity that floated on the very fringe
of my life and was only really a
name. But I've seen pictures of just
her and I've seen them with you, too.
And even thought I know it shouldn't
hurt, it does because it's her standing next
to you and not me and it's her lips on
yours and her making silly faces and having
you call her beautiful and gorgeous. And I
know that it shouldn't bother me because
each person has a past and your past and
your present and your future are just
muddled together into one present time
and it's complicated and funny and
maybe even wrong but it's still you so I
can't really complain.
I know that eventually those smiles and
laughs and comments and flashes and kisses
and touches will be with me, but still. To see
you with her - even if the pictures are old -
hurts more than any knife I've felt, any punch I've
received and just about any words I've ever heard.
But it shouldn't. I shouldn't even have looked but
I was curious one day about what types of
pictures someone like you would dare to show the
world and then I was mesmerized by this woman who's
name I hadn't even known at the time and I couldn't
stop staring at you smiling and being happy. This
was back before that phone call that told it
all and just complicated everything, so I just
smiled and reminded myself that you were happy and
that was all that mattered. But now it's different
because I do know these things and I wish so
much it was me in those pictures.
I know I'm being foolish and it only makes me
want to laugh at myself because I'm being so
silly and it's just so funny but it also really isn't
since it makes me want to cry and I know that you
have no idea what I've seen much less how it makes
me feel and I just want to tell you but I won't because
I understand and I know I shouldn't be hurt by
these pixels and codes and 1s and 0s.
But I am.
peace
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang
five shots or more, fired each time
but they're so far off, they sound like
"pop, pop, pop, pop, pop."
I lay in this bed, wondering how far
away they are and why people are
shooting and who's shooting at who and
if anyone is hurt or maybe dead.
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
Silence.
I wonder what the silence means,
if it's over or they're just reloading or
maybe it means that it's just a celebration
that's ended now, restoring the night.
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
Farther off again, but still within range
of hearing and possibly hitting and I
begin to wonder why no one has
called the police or gone out to
fix anything and then I remember that
I live in the neighborhood no one
goes near at night because of the
"what-if"'s and the fear.
Silence.
I close my eyes and pretend that
I live in a neighborhood so far away from
people and cities that no one has even
heard of a gun, much less owned or
fired one before and I begin to
smile until I can hear it again.
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
I wonder about so many things as I
pull a pillow over my head and
begin to pray that maybe no one's hurt and
maybe those aren't gun shots but
something else entirely - something that
won't hurt innocent people - even those
firing because we're all innocent.
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
Silence.
Denial.
Peace.
if i tell you a secret,
can you keep it?
shhh, they can't know
about it just yet, OK?
i want to be the one to
tell them what is in my
head so shhh...
it isn't really a secret but
it is a confession of things
that people may not know,
nor should they so shhh...
Just keep this little secret
for me and be my living
journal, please... just, shhh.
if i lean in close and
whisper so quietly that
you're not even sure I spoke
into your ear, do you think
you'd know just how secret
this thing is? do you think you
could just keep quiet for a
little bit? maybe longer? i
think you could and so
i'll tell you but shhh...
my little secret is actually quite
large and very scary to me and
i hope that you can handle such
horribly big news, but if you can't
just tell me and please try and stay
quiet about it because if you can't
stand this secret, how can anyone
else? so, shhh...
i just want someone to know that
i am actually a little bit human and
actually have problems and sometimes
need to take a step back from life and
just take some time for me and i
might make some bad decisions but
please shhh... they can't know this
little secret. this mark on my name.
honestly, i've lied. i'm not a little
bit human... but, shhhh. the truth is
so much bigger and really needs you
to just stay quiet and shhh...
truthfully, i am human.
shhh...
Artist
She leaned in close to me once upon a time and
whispered in my ear that she wanted to see herself as
I saw her. She wanted me to paint an image with my
words and my emotions that would possibly show
what I saw when I looked at her. I could only
smile softly and tell her that I couldn't do it because
I see how I see and she sees how she sees and we will
never be right because our truths are not the truth to
any other except to us.
And I wish I knew how she had looked in that
instant of denial, but I had turned away and refused to
look back for fear of seeing something akin to
pain in her honey eyes.
Yet now I sit in this room and stare at her picture,
wondering what I would have written if I were to
do as she asked. The only words the flow to mind
are ones I do not love and cannot comprehend, which
just brings one constant word forward and it scares
me because I honestly cannot understand this word.
It's short and it's meaning is understood for the most
part but when applied to something so personal as her or
any other living person in my life I suddenly cannot
remember what I had been taught about this word nor
an example of it besides her and him and you and them.
What does it mean to be so lost, so dazed, that you have
no idea who is really who anymore and who is causing you
to have such thoughts and to be cast in such shadows of
doubt and loss? I know that this word - this single word that
can describe all of this and so much more - is the word that
I would use as my paintbrush if I were to honestly sit and
write about her as I can see her, through this haze.
This paintbrush of a word would be quite unique in that
it's bristles would be harsh and soft and ruined but perfect and
it's handle would be decorated with past paint and paint that has
not been used yet and probably never will be in the future. It will
be of a valuable wood that everyone walks upon and cannot see
it's value - even the painter. The brush is relatively cheap, and easy
thing to obtain and explain, but no one will be able to truly
understand it, least of all her or myself, but it will be the word
that so perfectly defines her and would probably shape my
words into a new masterpiece that is lost on myself and most
all who would ever view it. This magic word that everyone knows
but probably never thinks much of.
This short word that I throw around uselessly but very rarely
notice for it's true meaning. This word that consumes her life,
her spirit, any thought of her or for her, and is a wall between her
heart and the true world in an attempt to keep herself safe and secure.
This word that is this confusion, this daze, this
darkness, this clarity in this endless night.
This Chaos that is hers and can only be defined in this
word that is her word alone and none others as far as
I will most likely ever know.
Connection
No one is here with me and I'm
standing alone in this crowd.
I don't know why I cam here, to
this lonely place of memories and
pain --- maybe I was just hoping to
c o n n e c t to something - and I know
that pain hurts the most and maybe
I hoped it would be enough to make
me feel like I belong. But I feel more
lost than ever and I want to cry
but not a l o n e, not again.
They walk right past me, chatting to
the people next to them or on their
phones - too d i s t r a c t e d to notice a
girl who has nowhere to go and no one to
go to but does have a n e e d to be part
of s o m e t h i n g.
My own phone feels too heavy in
my pocket and I begin to think of
you and almost call you - even though
I know I wouldn't say a word because
then you might hear the t e a r s in my
voice and would ask me what's w r o n g.
I know I wouldn't answer and you would
just stay on the phone and l i s t e n to me
cry. And I know that should make me feel
better, but I know that I wouldn't because
I can h e a r you whispering the words I've
been thinking and I know I'll just add to
your p r o b l e m s.
So I know that I'll just stand in this
crowd and listen to them talk to someone who
matters to them and listen to the w o r d s
you haven't said but are in my head.
I'll listen to you w h i s p e r softly into the phone
" I w i s h y o u w e r e h e r e . "
1s & 0s
I never really expected to see
her face, nor did I ever hope to.
I actually was quite content
just picturing her as some faceless
entity that floated on the very fringe
of my life and was only really a
name. But I've seen pictures of just
her and I've seen them with you, too.
And even thought I know it shouldn't
hurt, it does because it's her standing next
to you and not me and it's her lips on
yours and her making silly faces and having
you call her beautiful and gorgeous. And I
know that it shouldn't bother me because
each person has a past and your past and
your present and your future are just
muddled together into one present time
and it's complicated and funny and
maybe even wrong but it's still you so I
can't really complain.
I know that eventually those smiles and
laughs and comments and flashes and kisses
and touches will be with me, but still. To see
you with her - even if the pictures are old -
hurts more than any knife I've felt, any punch I've
received and just about any words I've ever heard.
But it shouldn't. I shouldn't even have looked but
I was curious one day about what types of
pictures someone like you would dare to show the
world and then I was mesmerized by this woman who's
name I hadn't even known at the time and I couldn't
stop staring at you smiling and being happy. This
was back before that phone call that told it
all and just complicated everything, so I just
smiled and reminded myself that you were happy and
that was all that mattered. But now it's different
because I do know these things and I wish so
much it was me in those pictures.
I know I'm being foolish and it only makes me
want to laugh at myself because I'm being so
silly and it's just so funny but it also really isn't
since it makes me want to cry and I know that you
have no idea what I've seen much less how it makes
me feel and I just want to tell you but I won't because
I understand and I know I shouldn't be hurt by
these pixels and codes and 1s and 0s.
But I am.
peace
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang
five shots or more, fired each time
but they're so far off, they sound like
"pop, pop, pop, pop, pop."
I lay in this bed, wondering how far
away they are and why people are
shooting and who's shooting at who and
if anyone is hurt or maybe dead.
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
Silence.
I wonder what the silence means,
if it's over or they're just reloading or
maybe it means that it's just a celebration
that's ended now, restoring the night.
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
Farther off again, but still within range
of hearing and possibly hitting and I
begin to wonder why no one has
called the police or gone out to
fix anything and then I remember that
I live in the neighborhood no one
goes near at night because of the
"what-if"'s and the fear.
Silence.
I close my eyes and pretend that
I live in a neighborhood so far away from
people and cities that no one has even
heard of a gun, much less owned or
fired one before and I begin to
smile until I can hear it again.
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
I wonder about so many things as I
pull a pillow over my head and
begin to pray that maybe no one's hurt and
maybe those aren't gun shots but
something else entirely - something that
won't hurt innocent people - even those
firing because we're all innocent.
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
Silence.
Denial.
Peace.