I Smiled at You

I smiled

at you

today; I couldn’t help

it. That means it’s genuine,

you know. And I can still feel

it in my heart:

warmth.

I felt my heart

and my mind

disconnect.

I looked

at you—

noticed your body.

Your face;

your eyes;

your cheeks;

your smile.

It was all so familiar.

I listened

to you. I heard

the bitterness

that you passed off as a joke.

I heard

the bitterness

that you passed off as a story.

I got defensive

toward the first.

Toward the second

I merely looked through

the façade

and sadly

noted your own miscalculation.

But my heart

stayed still.

Content;

connected;

enjoying

the familiar

companion.

The sense of knowing

and being known.

My heart

wanted to stay—

wanted to bask forever

in what is only momentary

peace

and fragile

safety.

My mind

is ever watching—

ever guarding

my broken,

misguided,

longing

heart.

My mind

broke

the news:

“You cannot

stay here. You are not

truly connected. This moment

will not

last. The façade will drop.

The smile will fade.

And the warmth will turn cold.

It is time to leave.”

My heart

obeyed. She walked away. “But

I can still feel

the warmth,”

she whispers. “It is genuine.”

My mind

must sternly

reply: “It was genuine once,

but what you feel are only remnants—

remnants

of the genuine, and remnants

of my façade.”

“I will always believe,”

my heart

whispers, “Always feel the warmth;

always hope;

always love.”

My mind

gives its final

report: “She is hopeless.”

Beyond the Shadows

I feel it before I can see it.

The pulsations begin at the tips of my fingers. They slowly travel to my palms. Sweat breaks out. The tiny spiders broach my arms. Each hair follicle prickles in turn.

Ringing in my ears. Steel clashes against steel. The hairs on my nape rise in alarm.

I clench my fists. And open my eyes.

Breath gets caught in my throat. My vision is blurred in the flood. Flashes of silver. Hounds and horses. Shadows. Shadows everywhere. With each shout, yell, blood-curdling scream, the spiders jump upwards upon my arm.

I am cold and hot at once. The shadows—the men—are getting closer. They ring me, and they are closing in.

Steel against steel. Grunts. Shouts. Screams. The screams do not discriminate. Men. Women. Children.

Bodies lunge against one another.

My heart is beating faster—faster—faster. The spiders release their webs. They spread, interweave, covering my upper body. Constriction. Squeezing the air out of my lungs. My heart. Faster—faster—faster.

The bodies threaten to brush against me. I know if I reach out I will penetrate the shadows—piercing flesh and blood.

A face materializes in front of me. A woman. The smear of muddied blood does not hide her ferocity. Her teeth are bared. Her eyes wild. A flash of silver in her hand. She lunges toward me. My heart. Faster—faster—faster.

STOP.

Everything freezes. The screams. The shadows. The thrusting arm. The webs. The spiders. The throbs. My heart.

“Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted. In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood.”

My breath returned. I raised my eyes to the hill. The cross stood tall.

Weeping filled my ears. I lowered my eyes.

The blood-stained field was littered with bodies. There was no discrimination. Men.  Women. Children. Broken. Bloodied. Weeping.

I took a step forward, and something brushed my ankle. I looked down to see a woman. Her face smeared with muddied blood. Her eyes shed tears of weariness and hopelessness. Her lips parted once and closed. I bent down to her. Placing my ears to her charred lips.

“What?” I asked.

The hoarse breathe finally took form: “Help.”   

Give Me Wings

I haven’t been nicely put together since June 29, 2008. You know what that day was? High School graduation. I was on top of the world. I had been with my first boyfriend for 9 months; had my first genuine best friend; had been in a musical; ran track for the first time, and had made it to post-season; been accepted to the Honor’s College at Stony Brook University; and on that very day—June 29, 2008—I graduated valedictorian, breaking the school’s record for highest average. I was a damn fine pot.

But then June 30 hit. You’ve heard the cliché, “Once you hit rock bottom, there is nowhere else to go but up.” Well, the formula works in the opposite direction as well. Once you hit mountain top there is nowhere to go but down. The cracks began. And then the cracks began to spread.

I was away from my best friend. I broke up with my boyfriend a month into college. I was no longer the smartest student. I gained weight. I held it together for about a year. But a pot can only sustain so many cracks. Mid-August 2009 I crumbled—my first experience of potsherds.

I was admitted.

Rebellion.

Secrecy.

Deception.

Relapse.

Finally, momentum.

After a year of potsherds, I thought I was well enough to rebuild.

Vanity of vanities!

All I did was fall

apart

again.

And so I quite.

I gave up.

God hid me away at Davis.

I didn’t push.

I sat quietly for three years.

Letting God slowly put little tiny pieces back together.

But now it’s time. Now there needs to be more. Now I need to be a full pot again. God isn’t moving fast enough.

And so others are trying to put me together.

Ask me if I’m mad. Go for it. Ask me.

YES, I’M MAD!!

I’m mad at me. I’m mad at you. I’m mad at him. I’m mad at her.

Am I mad at God?

Probably.

But not really.

What I want most is for everyone to be quiet—including myself—so I can hear. I want the world to stop turning.

But see, that is impractical. The world doesn’t stop. People don’t go away. And my mind doesn’t shut off.

Am I bound to be potsherds forever?

How long, O God??

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I take counsel in my soul

and have sorrow in my heart all the day?

How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;

light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,

lest my enemy say, ‘I have prevailed over him.’

lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken.”

David finished it. I cannot.

“Sometimes we heal by living life.”

I remember what it took for me to let go of my anorexia. I threw everything to the wind. And I ate. I ate with abandon.

Can I live like that? Live with reckless abandon?

I want to.

Forget the pot that I formerly was.

I want to spread my wings. And fly.

(Will God be the wind that carries me?)

The Glue Dries Clear

He touched me. Not in an inappropriate way. I’m old enough to know the difference. He probably thought it was harmless, friendly, carefree touching. No. He touched me. I didn’t ask him to touch me. I didn’t want him to touch me. I don’t feel safe. He touched me. And then he was gone.

But me—I was still there. Fractured pieces, crumbling to the floor. Fragmented. Disintegrated. Potsherds.

I shared my broken self once. I revealed myself. I exposed myself. And I got a slap in the face. “That’s dangerous,” was the only consolation I received. And up went a wall.

I felt the wall when she talked with me. I want to connect. I want to love. I want the exchange of warmth. But it’s that wall—it stands in the way. Isn’t this supposed to be safe?

“All I saw was a black hole.” He could have stolen the words from my mouth. Didn’t I say that a few days before? Perhaps— “This is my family,” he said. No. It’s not possible. The walls are still too high.

Reconciliation.

Such a foreign word. Supposedly, God has given me that ministry. But how can I minister to others when all I am is potsherds?

See I know it in my head. I know I need to reconcile myself to God. But then I can hear the repercussions: “Perhaps you haven’t given your life to Christ!” Well, in a way you would be right. But it’s not that simple!!

R

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Remember who you were.

I’m drowning!

Remember what it was like.

I can’t breathe!

You are not there now.

I can’t reach you!

I am here.

I am going to die!

Trust me.

Why are you not pulling me out?!

I am here.

I can’t stand!

Wait.

No! The water is too—

There.

I can stand!

Yes.

I can breathe!

Yes.

You didn’t pull me out.

You didn’t need to be.

But—

You could stand the entire time.

I can breathe!

Remember how it was.

I can stand!

Remember who you were.

I’m alive!

You are no longer she.

Reconciliation.

Such a foreign concept when I feel I am falling apart.

It overwhelms me; these potsherds that I am.

Look to me, says God.

Look where? I can’t see you.

I’m drowning.

These Worlds In Which We Live

It makes me sad
To think about the loss,
To think about what used to be us.
I miss the drive to make it work,
To fight for something that was greater than I.
But I have to remind myself:
What I yearn for is more than you.
I desire the relationship;
That which we had only a glimpse of.
I have to remember
That it will never be possible
Because there was always something
Chucked into the system:
Lack of respect.
I wanted to fight,
But I didn't want to fight for you.
I didn't feel you fighting for me,
So I only fought against you.
So, really,
I miss something I never had.
It was all just an illusion;
A figment of my own imagination;
A fantasy world based on potential;
Ignorance of reality.

In the Eyes of the Beholder

I wanted to be someone

special,

unique,

important.

But how can you be

one

when surrounded by so many others?

You are a puzzle piece,

he told me.

But I looked at all the others.

We were are all the same;

splashes of disorganized color

and curvaceous edges.

Amoebic entities vying

for attention,

for definition,

for importance.

That means nothing,

I scowled.

You are mistaken,

he replied.

Your color scheme:

unique.

Your shape:

special.

Come and look,

he said.

He picked me up

and placed me

on his shoulder.

From there, I watched.

The puzzle pieces

were a cacophony

disaster;

yet he handled them each

with the care

and precision

of a masterful

conductor.

I watched

as each

specific

piece

was put in its place.

Slowly,

the picture began to form;

the harmony to ring.

And then he stopped.

It’s beautiful,

I said.

But—

But, what?

he asked.

There is a spot missing,

over on the side.

He stroked his beard in deep thought.

You are right,

he replied.

The picture is missing something.

Do you know what it is?

he asked.

I stared at the picture,

disheartened by its

incompleteness.

No,

I replied.

I do,

he said.

It’s you.

He picked me up

once more.

And placed me in a spot

my spot

the only spot

in which my colors

would blend

and my shape

would fit.

I could not see the whole

picture from this point of view.

But I could feel,

and I could hear

that it was beautiful

and it was complete.

Merry-Go-Round

“Do you even love me?” I knew the question was coming. It always came. A last ditch effort to back me into a corner and reel me in. But I was tired of lying. “I don’t think I even know what love is,” I replied. Thus ended the year-long relationship.

“Love makes the world go round.” The phrase was inscribed on a merry-go-round sharpener I owned as a child. Every time I sharpened my pencil, the mini horses would take their short trek around the perimeter.

My experience of merry-go-rounds as a child was rare, despite living in our carousel-saturated county. Most of my memories of this rarity are of the Highland Park merry-go-round. My father often used to bring me and my sisters there—an escape from the confines of his one-room apartment a few blocks away. Even at a young age, I was a people-watcher. I would watch the fractured movements of people, as the carousel raced me toward and then whisked me away. I would listen as their voices grew louder, more pronounced and then, just as quickly, dissipate, engulfed by the constant music. It seems like music is what makes the merry-go-round.

A little girl is twirling to the music. Her father is delicately holding her hand above her head, providing an anchor for her spin. “Am I beautiful, Daddy?” She has been playing hard. Her dress is covered in mud, and her hair is matted to her face in sweat. But she is a little girl; she is infinitely cute. The external mire cannot mar her beauty. The carousel whisks me away.

I am brought back around. The girl has transformed. She is a young woman; no longer spinning. Now, she is clinging to a young man.

“You obviously love her very much.” I wanted him to contradict the words, but I knew he wouldn’t. “What makes you say that?” he asked. “Because she is intertwined into your very being. She has been in your heart since the moment I met you. And she seeps out of you here and there.” “That sounds like some kind of infection,” he replied.

The young man looks very pale. His face is turned away from the woman. But his fingers are wrapped tightly through her long flowing hair, clutching the strands as if he might fall away when he lets go. Then they disappear from my sight.

“Love is an infection,” I conceded. Before I can see the young man again, I can hear him retching. “There has to be a way to be wise about it,” he retorted. “I’m not sure exactly what that is, though. Most people just act cynical.” The young man comes into view. He is no longer clutching the woman; she is not even in sight. Green discoloration distorts his face.

Cynical: bitterly or sneeringly distrustful, contemptuous, or pessimistic. I felt the burn of his accusation. “I think the people who are cynical are those who have never loved or have been burnt by love. The former are jealous; the latter have an excuse.”

I want off the carousel. It is no merry-go-round. I clench my eyes shut. But I cannot drown out the music. “Loved people love people.” The accusation burns again. I hear my own voice: “I don’t think I even know what love is.” I want the young man’s fingers to be intertwined into my hair. The burn grows hotter. “Love is an infection.” I feel blood rushing to my ears as the carousel moves faster and faster. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.” I move my hands to cover my ears. The speed of the carousel is too much; I begin to slide off. My stomach sours, as the heat sears my eyes and ears. I tumble off my horse, and the carousel spits me to the side.

I hit the gravel hard. As I try to lift myself, I retch uncontrollably. Am I beautiful, Daddy? “But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us.”