Tag: writing

Pretty people die, too.

michelleLeave a comment

Did you know that? That pretty people died, too?

We live in a society. A society hellbent on dividing but not conquering. We live in a time where the perceived sum total of a person is based on what category they fit into and what box they tick. There is an emphasis on all this separation and identification even though, at the very end, no one is exempt from the hand of life and, ultimately, death.

These man-made pedestals do much for the living and nothing for the dead.

And even the most powerful, influential, and beautiful, they, too, remain at the mercy of life itself.

In a world that thrives off on separation and distinction. In a world with occupants that continuously seek to push an agenda that ties our worth, our dignity, and the importance of life itself, based on its ability to meet criteria. Criteria that those who perpetuate don’t and can’t meet themselves,

I urge you to remind yourself that pretty people die, too.

And a statement like this can imply a wealth of ignorance. I am here to inform you that I know the world that we live in (- or at least I am starting to). I see how these categories and divisions create a perceived sense of power and ability to determine another’s worth. This is why many march, many demand, and some ultimately have to beg that other person someone can see beyond the division, beyond the categories. 

It is why empathy is reserved for those who can actualize it as opposed to a universally taught standard.

Despite this, despite all of this, pretty people still die, too. 

Everyone does. A moment, a second, a decision can be the only line separating the living and the dead. We know this, but we can and probably will ignore it. Ignore how simple and how fragile, how precious, human life is.

And so, we continue to polish the pedestals, rejecting those that do not meet the requirements of the pedestal. While others will dehumanize those standing on the pedestals, subjecting them to fates, few understand and speak about. 

A few will fight against the pedestals, and fewer will see actual change.

And the train will keep going. And everyone, including the pretty people, will die. And we will all wonder what the point was and why the pedestals even existed,

And then, slowly but surely, the cycle will continue. 

And when another pretty person dies, we will stand in shock because we will be reminded that pretty people die, too.

I wish I cried on the train.

michelleLeave a comment

I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

On remembering and Not remembering

michelleLeave a comment

I am still recovering. 

I am still working on it. I am still feeling it. 

Still dealing with it.

There are moments when I am fine. Moments when I don’t remember. I don’t remember the hurt, the embarrassment, the feeling of instant regret. There are days when I forget that I ever experienced any of that. 

Then, there are days when I remember. 

The days when I stay inside. The days when I get consumed in the hating, and the pulling myself apart, the days when the self-doubt takes over.  On those days, hoping feels a little sillier and a little hopeless. 

So, I try my best not to remember,

I put them away, distract myself, and instead, I imagine: I set the scene, and you are placed right in the middle. The best seat in the house.

In my theatre

Here you cannot miss this show. You cannot miss a second, a turn, a smile. I stand before you. This time, I am prepared. This time, I know your game.

This time, it is a fair game

I see through your facade. I recognize the bullshit bluffing as your so-called confidence. The blurry image I once thought was mysterious has cleared up to be insecurity. 

This time, you can’t hurt me.

You can’t hurt me because while you can see me. And while you can hear me and feel my energy, my presence, my impact.

You cannot touch me. You cannot approach me. You are only a viewer in my show and you can only watch me because you cannot watch anything else

I am the show. And you are my audience. 

At this moment, I have control. I am in control, and you cannot hurt me. 

When I remember I go there, to this place. The place where I tell you who you are. The place where I confront you with your shame

The place where I hold the mirror, and instead of hurting me, you see yourself. Clearly. 

On the days when I don’t remember. 

I hope, I long, and I wish. I am once again just a girl who has feelings. The girl who may not have worn her heart on her sleeve but the girl who imagined the good. The girl who would daydream about the boy who handed her their sharpener, about the other boy who held the door open for her, and about the other boy whose laugh was a cure for any bad feelings in her mind.

The girl who didn’t even for a second, second guess intention, the girl who never doubted her worth of deserving love.

When I remember, I go to the place where I can tell you what you have done to me. 

The place where my scars are visible. Where my pain is universally understood. Accepted and not justified. 

When I remember, I speak clearly. 

I share my shame with you because it should belong to you.

I leave the stage and you, with the baggage you gave me. I leave the stage and realize what I have always known, what I needed you to know. I leave the stage, and finally, you know

You realize your loss. You realize your misfortune. I leave, and you curse the air and feel the feeling. The sensation, and it engulfs you 

I leave, and all you are left with is regret. 

That’s the part that’s left. The reason why the memory of you still lingers. The reason why I remember and don’t remember. My curiosity keeps me, making me revisit you and the memory and the time. It makes me think about you, unable to forget you. I wonder to myself, I wonder if you feel it.

Do you have any remorse? Regret? 

I wonder if there is a split second or moment in your day where you pause and wonder. Long for a moment. A time when you could be on the stage. A moment when I sit across in the best seat in the house. Right in the middle because I cannot miss a thing. Because you need me to hear from you

To see you.

A moment when you say how you felt, how the shame was too much.How the shame, the embarrassment, the instant regret was the spillage from the overflowing pool of emotions you carry on your chest. You tell me that the isolation was a gift, a moment of compassion and protection from the mess that encompasses your self-hatred and anger and that your unresolved troubled childhood trauma was the sole reason. That I was just an unlucky casualty in your war against yourself.

That way, I would see your pain—all of it.

I would see the shame. 

You would get to tell me who you really are. 

You would tell me about the days when you remember. Days when you can’t choose not to remember. You would tell how on the days when you remember how you go to this place. You would go to this stage, and you would say to me how you remember.

You would then do the most unexpected thing. 

You would ask me how I felt.

And you would tell me how seeing my shock and confusion after that question would pain you. 

You would tell me how you never realized that that was the first time you had asked me this, the first time you paused and considered me, my story, and my feelings.

And then I would tell you what I do on the days that I don’t remember and on the days that I do. 

a monologue about anger

michelleLeave a comment

The white lights and stainless steel cabinets made the kitchen feel like a police officer’s interrogation room—and honestly, so did the energy.

The cluttered kitchen felt empty, and tension hung like blackout curtains, completely taking over the room. We sat across from each other, nothing but the space of the table between us. The table that I thought had been chosen in agreement easily and happily—a once happy memory ruined by the new unknown context I just found out tonight, three years later.

On the table lay the remnants of what could only be described as a train wreck of a five-year anniversary dinner.

Like the spilled wine on the table, a lot of angry and rage-filled words had been spilled tonight. 

It was at this moment it clicked. It all made sense. I looked at the man across from me, the man I claimed to love. I studied his face, I looked at his skin, his hands, his eyebrows and then big one, the one my eyes had been avoiding. The tears. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and I watched in awe.  Staring at him I realized -this was the first time i am seeing him cry. In confusion, temporarily interrupting my anger, I realized I didn’t recognize him. Or rather, I didn’t recognize him like— this.

This is the part that had been missing, the part that I wondered about, the place where he sometimes disappeared to

5 years worth of frustration and suppression 

5 years of wondering, of asking, and revisiting 

Finally, I could see him 

All of him, I had arrived.

He was looking back at me. 

His breath was only a little faster than mine. His was sharp and frequent like he just took a brisk walk. He looked a little smaller, vulnerable. His shoulders slightly hunched over – his final attempt to conceal something, anything as he sat here heaving after completing the most open, gut-wrenching and anger filled outburst.

After he finally bore his soul.

I can tell he has been holding this in.

5 years of saying it’s fine.

5 years of saying that it doesn’t bother him 

That he didn’t mind,

5 years of pretending to be okay when he wasn’t.

I want to laugh because look at us! Becoming the very same people we used to mock. The people we said we could never become

It’s been 5 minutes since he spoke. We have sat here for 5 minutes 

He has been recovering, and I have been thinking.

It’s quiet, so I can hear every teardrop 

This man is angry, and he has finally told me. I can finally see him 

I feel relief, but I am angry, too.

Our eyes are locked, and we study each other, searching, investigating, waiting.

It’s my turn to speak 

To share my piece

To bring forth my 5 years of context

My response 

I take a deep breath each molecule preparing me for the response that may change everything. 

The response that defines 5 years, our 5 years …

“Are you done? 

Can I speak now? 

No, I genuinely mean it, are you finished. I want you to get it, get this off your chest. Finally 

I want you to say it all! even if you scream it all!

Because this is the closest, the most I have known about you, the most anything that I have felt from you in months!

This is real. This is honest. This is you 

You are angry. You are still you but right now you are you and you are angry! and that is okay. 

`I take a deep breath’

I stay begging; you call it nagging. But we sit here every few months, upset at each other; We kinda sorta figure it out, and I say what’s kind of on my chest, and you don’t 

We “solve” the issue – and then we move on. Except we don’t, and you don’t get heard, and I never know, and then we go right. back. to. it. 

But finally. We are here. 

It’s not great, it’s not comfortable, it’s definitely not fun but shit we are here. 

I am here, and finally finally, so are you. 

You are angry

The thing is, I can finally say it. I can pinpoint it. It’s identifiable. T h i s h a s m a d e y o u a n g r y. Before, I just had to guess. I always wondered. Ultimately, I resorted to just assuming. Guessing that each time you disappear, each time you isolate, vanish, it means that you are angry or upset. 

And it’s not healthy. It’s not!

But what choice do I have when you only ever show me the good parts? What options do I have when every time I ask, you lie? 

`I take another deep breath’ 

You say you are fine, and then you go for a walk

You say you are fine, and then you go for a jog

You say you are fine and I am picking you up from a bar from god-knows where. And then I ask you again and you lie and say that you are fine!

`he wants to talk, but I persist’ 

When I push, when I engage, when I sit here – quiet 

I am quiet because I want to exist with you

I want access to this this world, this bubble 

This life that you so desperately try to hide, to gatekeep

To exclude me from 

You are angry 

You are still you, but right now, you are you, and you are angry.

I am angry too. I am angry, and I love you. 

I am angry because I have never once asked you to withhold this part of yourself. 

I never told you that I only wanted the good parts

I understand it is above me, above you, above all of us. I understand it’s because we live in a space, a world, a society 

-A society that demands us to hide, retreat, and disguise moments like this, feelings like this

But this is me, and this is you. 

And this is us

We make up this space 

We create this space 

You occupy this space with me. You exist as a person here, alongside me. Your space and your world intersect with me, here. When you leave me out, when you don’t say why you are so fucking angry 

I exist in this space alone. 

You isolate me 

That is when your anger, your feelings, things are that are about you, become about me too, okay

So don’t stand here and call me selfish; don’t dismiss me and say that I don’t understand. Of course I don’t, how could I? You are angry, I know you, but I don’t know your anger 

You are you and I know you 

But you are you and you are angry and I don’t know you with that.

`I am yelling, I pause. I lower my voice’

I am not saying that I need to fix it. I am not even saying that I can but I am saying that I just want to know, okay? This is our space, and in our space you have brought anger, and I deserve to know that.

I want to know your anger because that is a part of you and you can’t escape it. 

And yes you are right, I do not want to be a victim of your anger. So don’t take it out on me. 

But 

But fuck! If you think that not telling me, not opening up, and not being honest is the opposite of making me the victim, then I have some bad news for you. Shocking news! 

Because right now, this, this silence, this coldness, this distance?

I am a victim now.

I am standing at the forefront in the line of danger, and I am standing here alone. 

Because you are angry 

And because I love you 

So what now? What happens next? 

I didn’t realize that asking you to bring your whole self was asking for too much.

It didn’t occur to me that you would bring any less of you in this

Because I brought all of me!

`I am crying – how do I stop crying! ‘

I didn’t know, and now that I do know, I no longer want to be a part of a relationship where we are not bringing ourselves, our whole selves, into it. This is a condition of my love.

The good, the bad, the ugly.

 Oh, and by the way, anger has never been the bad or the ugly. At least not to me, anyway 

So I’ll ask you again.

Are you done, or is there anything else you would like to add?”

Picture this, a place where love exists. A place where even after a rage-driven argument has left two breathless lovers silent, there is still the mutual knowledge that love persists.

About the person I will never know

michelleLeave a comment

Hey! Or maybe I should just say hi, hi like the first time we spoke.

I will never deny that I have and will always be a hopeless romantic. I picture music, passion, and fairytales when I think of love. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I am unable to let go of this despite all the ways that I have witnessed the opposite.

Around the time before I saw you, I had had enough. I had just found a way to pick myself back up after I had once again been shown what it felt like to chase someone who did not choose me and who didn’t see me. I was experiencing what felt like another flop moment, and at that point, I had honestly had enough. I committed myself to my books and only looked up at my friends and work.

I was fine. Things weren’t perfect, but I was fine.

Then I saw you.

Truthfully, I feel silly writing this. It almost feels embarrassing to admit the effect that one look had on me. I knew nothing about you, but I wanted to know everything.

Suddenly, our one-second eye contact-ship became the highlight of my days. I found myself cemented in places where I knew there was a possibility of seeing you. I once walked with my head down, but now it was high.

It was kind of all-consuming, leading me to believe it would disappear as quickly and sharply as it had come to me. So, I sat patiently and waited for the feelings to pass.

They did not.

Social media. A dangerous tool but a tool nonetheless. I asked for access to your world, and you accepted. And finally, it happened.

“Hi”

It is laughable how happy that interaction left me. How I thought about it for days. I can not deny it; speaking to you made me happy.

Anytime after that, I would be grateful for a moment, any moment that I could get to speak to you. Regardless of the duration, content, or reason. Time and place – I was there. I even wondered if I had ever liked anyone because no one had ever made me feel like this.

I created a space where you could comfortably occupy my thoughts. A space of stillness in my busy mind.

The truth is that I was scared; I am still scared. I had seen the worse sides of the game of love, and I wondered if my heart was truly capable of dealing with disappointment again. My cowardly self was too scared to explore because I feared that reality would shatter the last person to make me excited about the possibility of ever finding a lover.

In my defense, I always told myself that I would say this to you. I promised myself that the next time I saw you, I would take courage, embrace it, and speak my truth. Funny, after I made this promise, I never saw you again.

So here I am, writing a declaration—words I have always wanted to say but have been too scared to admit.

I think you are beautiful. It is true. I have never seen someone look so good; honestly, it is mind-boggling. Every time I saw you, my chest would tighten, and my breathing would become a manual action I needed to consciously partake in. Contrastingly, I always felt a calmness and safety that would result in me wanting to tell you everything and also wishing to know everything.

That is another thing. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to hear everything about you. I wanted to know what made you happy, sad, angry. I wanted to know what made you, you.

Now, I hope I don’t come off as crazy. I want you to know that I worked extra hard at not imagining who you could be. I wanted to genuinely know you. I hope this does not scare you. I hope it does not make you want to deter me. It is unlikely that our paths will ever cross again. I wanted to thank you because I never knew what it felt like to really crush on someone, to be undeniably attracted to someone.

To the stranger who consumed my life for a moment in time, I genuinely wish you all the best. I hope you know that you have a silent fan cheering you on as you do whatever you have always wanted to do.

I also release you. I release you because I realize I deserve to find someone who thinks of me this way.

Because I can love like this means that I deserve a love like that.