I Wish I Still Had Scars From You

I wish I still had scars from you.
Because when I remember
how I hurt you,
I want to rip my skin
into shreds of paper
that blow in the wind until I am no more.
I wish I could bleed,
tear at my soul
until nothing exists
but the blood and the bone
of my very being
and I am alone.
It hurts to recall,
a pit in my stomach
growing and absorbing all light and life
until it sits,
gnawing at my heart,
indulging in each beat with relish.
And I’m sorry.
There’s a passive aggressive bone hidden
somewhere within the ribs,
maybe the third one down,
and it poisons my mind.
And I’m sorry.
My blood is ichor,
but the devil’s instead,
and it scorches and twists through veins
until boiling into one unleashed act.
And I’m sorry
that I can’t find the words to express it.
That I have to be rude.
That I pushed you away.
Because I can’t have people close
when I fail to live up to
the expectations
of myself.

We Hired Ourselves

We hired ourselves,
Young and innocent,
“He reminds me of you.”
True, yes,
but did I have the outlook of a day on fire,
the air poison, no sense of desire
with everything pain?
Did I sit in the silence, mesmerized by rain
and seeing nothing but fall?
I guess I did.
And I wonder if you ever saw me at all.
Because if that’s what I remind you of,
if this kid is me,
then I pity you.
We hired ourselves,
and in him,
I see you.

At The End

At the end
or perhaps, the beginning,
there was me
and you,
a boy,
a girl,
stuck on the edge
of a wheel,
feet skimming the grass,
hovering,
staring.
Hands itching closer,
closer,
fingers stretching
as much as fingers can,
bones pressing at the fabric of skin
until nothing
except a spark,
static,
the universe itself,
lay between the outstretched hands
And the wheel turned,
grass brushing
bare feet,
soft skin,
and the distance grew,
shrunk,
melted away
in the mist of the day
that had become night
in the time it took
for two hands
to touch,
for fingers
to brush,
for a beginning to end
and an end to begin
and a wheel to turn
the cycle again.

I Can’t Sleep

Something’s wrong.
I can’t rest, can’t sleep
can’t find comfort
in a bed and sheets,
or warmth, safety,
a pillow beneath my head.

I can’t sleep.

I’m in a perpetual state
of pure exhaustion,
eyes a desert,
on fire,
burning eternally.
My mind stops,
a fragment of thought a refrain with no end,
half-finished stories, prolonged ideas,
persisting,
day in, day out,
no rest for a wicked mind,
and
I can’t sleep.

2019

2018 was a year of being. That should be said about every year, but sometimes it isn’t. Though I understand more about life than I did a year ago, sometimes I still feel like the little lost teenager starting a new school for the first time, books clutched to my chest, eyes wide at the world. And is that really a bad way to be?
I forget my age, at times. Sometimes I feel seven, joyful and exuberant and enthusiastic about little things. Sometimes I feel fifty, keeping up with slang and talking about work ethic and being professional. Sometimes I feel my age, lost and ready to enjoy the world with all the emotions wrapped with a bow.
2018 allowed me many things. I explored more of the world than I thought I would ever. I visited parts of my home state I’ve never visited, I crossed three states in the span of a week. I met family I thought I would never meet or see again, due to distance or deaths or extenuating circumstances outside my control, and I visited a state that held no interest to me previously but in reality is pretty cool.
2018 brought me a job with people I would have never met or thought I would meet. It brought me friends I never dreamed I would have, and a happiness in being social that I never thought I wanted.
2018 brought a lot of things.
But it is 2019 now, and it’s a new beginning. A brand new start to this thing called life.
I wish I could predict where it will lead me. But what would be the point of the journey?
I will say one thing, though. I am going to continue in this little corner of my universe and write about everything and anything I want to. If it’s daily prompts I finish but don’t share, drabbles that are too long to be considered drabbles, reflections or rambles or anything in between, I will document it in some way. And if you want to join me, I’m okay with that, too.
Let’s make 2019 never forget a single one of us inhabiting this planet we call home.

Love,
Victoria

Why I Write

I just wanted to say, off the bat, that even if no one reads this, even if only one person reads this, it doesn’t matter. I need to do this. For me. And I will keep posting. Even if it is sporadically and not on any schedule.

I write when I feel it, then that tug in my soul makes me want to pour out my thoughts into words. I write when the need pulls at my fingers and brain and very being until I type what I wanted to type.

And so, the poems and the pieces and the random thoughts that end up here don’t get much polish. They’re rough, what I wanted to say at the time. Maybe, later, I’ll go back and retype them on my end, but they will only be posted as first drafts, complete in their own ways. They will be posted as complete as I feel they are in the inception of their creation.

Except maybe some short stories. Those I might work on more.

So, be kind. They’re rough, just like emotions are, just like thoughts and hurts and happiness are. Just like dreams are. I’ve tried to catch what I could at the time and put it down. And I hope you like it.

This isn’t what I want to write. I want to write tales, tales of adventure, of love. Of loss. Soaring epic fantasies that span worlds.
Yet I can’t.
I can’t find a voice, one that fits the stories that I want to spin. A voice so full of magic and wonder that it makes you pause.
Yet I can’t.
I find myself writing half-baked stories, ideas that don’t feel right. Ideas that, in other hands, might be beautiful. Might sit on a shelf in a bookstore, someone else’s name emblazoned on the cover. But not my name, never my name.
I used to dream of my name on a book, one that people loved. Growing up, I was to write the next Great American Novel, so much so that it felt a part of who I was supposed to be, who I would become.
Now I don’t dream of that, because dreams are jinxes that haunt my waking moment. If I dream it, it won’t come true, because nothing I’ve dreamed has come true.
And the secret dreams, the ones hidden behind the curtain in my heart, those have.
Maybe I don’t want it enough. Maybe I’m not trying enough. I’m not skilled enough. I don’t read enough, write enough, think enough for this to even happen. Maybe I should stop trying.
Maybe I should stop trying.
If the thing that I was supposed to grow up to become hasn’t come true, and I am grown, does that mean I am living a lie, breaking every promise I ever made to everyone I looked up to in life? Does this mean I am the embodiment of failure? Does this mean I am lost?
Maybe I should stop trying.
But I don’t think I can.
Sure, I might have fallen far from what I thought I would do. Perhaps I will never find that voice. Maybe stories aren’t in the forecast of the future.
But I don’t think I can stop.
I like writing, and reading, and hearing what I write and hearing MY voice. If I can’t fit the stories I want to spin, then I’ll have to find the stories that do.
And maybe, just maybe,
My name will be on a book.

Things I Hate Pt. 1

I may hate certain things. I find the sound of metal on any surface grating. Vegetables are gross. The smell and taste of mint gives me a headache. Coconut is one of the worst textures in the world. And yet there is one thing that I hate more than anything. And it is raisins in food.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against raisins. I mean, they’re gross, but I don’t hate the taste. I mean, every time I used to give them for a snack, I always thought they would be better than they were. They smell kind of good. And craisins aren’t bad either. But put raisins in food and I will hate you.
I mean, when you bite into a cookie, or something sweet, and you see those dark specks in the food that look almost melted, and you know it’s going to taste so good and chocolatey and it turns out to be a raisin? It’s the worst betrayal ever. It’s torture, cruel punishment, a complete just… ugh. You can’t put raisins in food and not think it isn’t chocolate or something else except shriveled grossness. It’s wrong. Raisins don’t belong in desert. Or in anything. At all. They can be on their own. If you really want them. Or maybe in trail mix cause you can pick them out. But don’t offer me a cookie and not say what’s in it and it looks like a normal cookie but it turns out to be a seriously gross raisin cookie. So yeah. I needed to get that off my chest. Raisins are gross guys. That’s all.

Dreams of Life

When I was a kid, I had grand dreams. Everyone did, I think. Some wanted to be firemen, or princesses, or even Sonic. Hell, I’ve listened to little kids tell me they want to be animals or fictional characters. It’s the greatness of imagination, and the greatness of a society that tells you that you can be anything that you want to be, if you just set your mind to it.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to go back to the little private school I went to and be a teacher there. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of some of my favorite adults and teach others. And besides the lofty idea of being a writer, I wanted nothing else.

It’s not the grandest dream, nor was it the most difficult dream. But somewhere between middle school ending and life beginning, I lost that dream. Now, granted, I have done a few teaching jobs. I worked for after-school care for elementary kids (not much teaching, but I was called a teacher and that’s what matters). And for a couple years, I was a preschool teacher, and worked with pretty much all the young ages. But I had the glorious opportunity to have my own class of the older one’s.

I’m not saying these jobs drew me away from my dreams of teaching. If anything, being a preschool teacher reminded me of why I wanted to be a teacher. And yet, in trying to figure out myself and my life, I don’t think I want to be a teacher anymore.

Some kids grow up to live their dreams. They become actors, or politicians, or writers, or construction workers, or any other type of career they wanted. I haven’t found that yet. I thought maybe I did. I thought maybe, in the grand scheme of things, I might have found my dream job.

But something I’ve realized as time’s worn on is that, well, dreams can change. I’ve sat and I’ve poured so much thought into the future that all I can think about is what is going to happen, what might happen, why am I not trying to hold onto my future, what will happen to me. But then I’ve stopped. Yes, I’m sitting here, wasting time, sleeping the days away and passing the nights. Yes, to some it may not look like I’m taking charge of my own life. But that’s just it. I have stopped trying to take charge, just a little.

Instead, I’m figuring out steps. Steps that will get me to a potential dream. And though it doesn’t look like I’m succeeding, maybe I am. I’m finding my way to a place that may make me the happiest person I can be, in the future. I’m finding my way to a place that, hopefully, won’t make me miserable. Does it make sense right now? No, and it’s terrifying. And it’s really difficult to explain, sometimes even to myself. And I just have to let it be difficult. I just have to let it be terrifying. Because I’m letting the control of my destiny go.

People say that when a door closes, a window opens. And that’s what I’m letting happen. I’m waiting for my window to open. Right now there’s a crack in the shutters, and all I want is for it to open wide enough for me to pass. But it’s a waiting game, all while there’s a hammer and a glass window in another room that I can force open. But if I break it myself, do I lose the window I’m waiting on? Should I risk that?

I don’t know if I can risk it. But I think I have to try. Because my dream has changed, I think. Or maybe it’s evolved. And behind the shuttered window is an avenue to my dream, one that’s a huge step in the right direction. If I turn away, I might still be able to work towards my dream, but I think it’d be harder, and I might lose myself again.

When you’re a kid, you dream of changing the world. Of a perfect life, with no struggle, with the power to fix anything. It’s an imperfect dream, but that’s not realized until later. I once dreamed of being a teacher. And now, I’m not so sure.