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Blank Canvas.

A paintbrush and some water
That’s all I need,
All I ask for.
A paintbrush and some water,
That’s all I require
To explain what’s stirring up in my heart,
To map out my desire.
My happiness, my joy
My god sent golden boy.
A paintbrush and some water,
To draw lines both bent and straight,
To represent paths crossed,
Beliefs intertwined,
Lips interlocked.
A paintbrush and some water,
Because this radiates colour.
Bold, Vibrant,
But nobody has to know,
Nobody deserves to see what I see.
So I dip my paintbrush in some water,
And start on this blank canvas.
There’s lines and curves,
Patches more soaked than the others.
It’s beautiful to me,
It’s colourful to me.
No one else needs to see the illumination I feel,
Not from up close, not from far away,
No one else needs to confirm,
Or reject or challenge,
Not to my face, not when I turn away.
When I dip my paintbrush in some water,
And let loose on this beautiful canvas,
All that matters is what I see.
It’s not just white cloth soaked in transparent moisture,
I see patterns and precision,
I see patience and passion,
I see colours,
I see you.

A.

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Trichotillomania.

They call me crazy
Not out loud
Not even in hushed voices
They’re afraid I’d hear their every sound
Afraid I would know…

They call me crazy
In their heads,
On the internet
I know these things
I know everything
I feel like I know…

They call me crazy
Because my eyes dart around
And my fingers tremble
When presented with situations that make me panic

Guess what? I know..

My fingers pull and twist
Forming knots in places where they shouldn’t exist
Then uproot
Distributing a burst of pain which brings relief

I can’t help it
They can’t help me
So they call me crazy in their deepest thoughts
But I read minds
So, I know.

A.

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Misconstrued.

They speak of love like a force,
An entity of its own,
Enveloping mere mortals.
Possessing them,
Taking over in ways that failed to appeal to me,
And I believed.
But this,
This is nothing like I envisioned.
This is soothing,
Like cool breeze on a warm summer’s night.
Calming,
Like a drag of Mary J’s finest rolls.
Comforting,
Like your arms around me on my worst days.
This is simple,
Like nothing I have known before.
I don’t want to jump or scream or shout,
There is no urge to go crazy or lose my mind,
Not in anger, not it dismay.
Thoughts of you occupy my mind but not in a forceful way,
It’s beautiful, it’s easy
It’s the best thing I’ve experienced thus far.

Where has this been all my life?
Where have you been all my life?

A.

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Living With An Emotional Deficiency – V.

V.

It’s not about you,
Never been, never will be.
I know you secretly wonder if I was the same way with him,
Yes.
Worse.
But for you, I tried,
To unpeel myself from the wall,
Etched in closer till our personal space overlapped.
I practiced hugs which weren’t identical to two sumo wrestlers coming together to pull their limbs out,
Spoke about things that destroyed me, past and present,
Until I felt a prick in the back of my eyes,
Salt water trails crawling down my throat.
It stung, it hurt,
It was tears that I couldn’t cry.
Because if I start now, when would this emotional cascade end?
I have a lifetime of unspoken trauma,
I’m afraid it could kill me.
Afraid I would die without knowing life outside of these emotional constraints.

A.

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Living With An Emotional Deficiency – IV.

IV.

I guess if I wasn’t so broken,
I would enjoy hugs.
They’re sickeningly invasive,
uncomfortably restrictive.
A gesture which intellectuals should have eradicated years ago.
Yet, it’s oddly satisfying…for half a second.
But for you, I endure.

A.

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Living With An Emotional Deficiency – III

III.

If you promise to hear me out, I’ll explain,
Why emotional responses are unhurried.
Why I’m numb and expressionless initially.
Truth is, I’m not cold.
It just takes me time to recollect all my memories of similar incidents I’ve encountered,
In movies, tv shows, novels and friends.
I sift through the emotions they expressed,
Create a combination of all of them and choose that to show,
While crossing my fingers,
Hoping to God that’s the appropriate reaction.

Would you tell me if it’s not?

A.

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Living With An Emotional Deficiency – I.

I.

How best can I explain,
That I struggle with vulnerability,
Like people struggle with addiction.
There are days I cry about my inability to connect,
About ‘dismissal’ being my immediate response.
I hurt when my body jerks back once in contact with another,
Knowing it is impossible for mammals to survive without body contact.

But how do I change this?

A.

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Talentless.

I once created literary art,
With blood drawn from my broken heart.
The words flowed endlessly,
How could it not?
With an abundance crimson fluid gushing out uncontrollably,
As the cracks in my poor love centre elongated.
Because of this, I was declared a lyricist in her prime.
But I have watched my creativity sublime,
As depression slowly evades me this body that I call mine.
It’s over now.
My heart no longer beats a tune which negativity dances to.
I don’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders,
I don’t hear the crushing sounds of my hopes and dreams falling apart.
I don’t know what else to write about.

A.

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Just Afraid.

You try to be the best I’ve ever had,
But that doesn’t take much effort.
You don’t know that,
And I’ll never mention it.
Not my experience with abuse,
Not the insecurities bound to oxygen, flowing through my veins.
I’m afraid you’ll be inspired,
Afraid you’d come up with new methods of breaking my heart,
Tearing me down,
Stripping me of my self worth.
Like I’ve had with those that came before,
Like I’m used to.

A.

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