Eye Sores

It’s one am, and when I thought the floor had just stopped spinning , I feel another wave of nausea swoon over me. It sucked, slowly paddling my fork through rivers of gravy on thanksgiving, not really up for eating. A day I usually loved, was getting blotchier by the moment. The eye spots were getting more and more difficult to avoid. I couldn’t make it through the 15 minute car ride, eyes so tired I fell asleep against the window.

I awoke, a headache was my morning coffee; right on time, but much too bitter. I wanted it to go away, but slowly popping pain killers that didn’t even damper the pain wasn’t the best option. It past, but slowly returned while my cousin pulled a straightener through my hair. I couldn’t hold myself up, too nauseous, and losing sight by the minute. I dropped to the floor as the color left. It faded back in slowly, but the nausea or head pains never left.

It happened 2 more times. Once later that day and of course once in the middle of the movie theatre. I got up, excusing myself, and dashed out, ready to escape the beaming lights of the movie screen.

It never left, the nausea or the pain, and the loss of color has become too common. My eyes are sore, straining too see clearly. Perhaps the solution is not black and white, but in the color that’s so often escaped me. I will feel better.

Thanksgiving Food For Your Thoughts

This is one of my favorite pieces of slam poetry. (Meaning i wrote and performed this piece.) It got me to the last round of state and brought me in at fifth in the state at the U21 Slam Off my freshman year. I hope you find as much humor in it as i do. Happy thanksgiving everyone :)

(And P.S. Don't think you can steal it. It's in the slam records as mine!)

FEAR

Fear has come on little cat feet

Wondering through allies licked with darkness

Slowly crawling through your window

Pushing back the curtains

And clawing at dainty queen Mab

And you only wish you were fearless

Becasue the feet of fear are dripping with blood

And its mouth is waiting for more

Fear Strikes Again

Aunty Ree is forcing me

To taste this years Thanksgiving surprise

And it's all a bad dream

Flashes of casserole dishes

Crusty brown ham soaked in syrup

Baked at 450 served with Mayo

A pie

Circular, yes, edible, no

It resembled the back of the head of the kid

Who sits in front of me in math and refuses to wear deoderant

She's made the puddings

For years she insisted eggs were the substitue for milk

And that sugar wasn't ever substitued

So i get this thing that looks like two-day-old eggs

Sweetened

And told to eat every last bite until my mouth quivers

Yes, fear has come on little cat feet

But with the tackiest apron in the world

And sometimes the fear is so deep pushing away my own flesh with its truth that i cry when she pushes a spoon full of banana soup into my mouth

And i let it ooze out the corners

Because it's that scary

Sometimes i feel bad

Refusing her tofu turkey

And her jellied ham

But i did not feel bad the year she tried to serve me fried frog legs with cranberry tartar

Looking her in the eyes and saying,

"Ree you're looking quite thin these days, have you been working out?"

And then allowing her to go off on a rampage about her new grapefruit diet

While i go out the door

But this year

Oh this year was bad

The wallpaper in her bathroom had started to peel with anticipation of what it would experience after this meal

Oh fear was striking hard

Because this year

She pulled out the big guns

Slicing Chopping

Baking Broiling

This year she served on paper plates

Because her substance might break her new china

This year she had made us

Chicken

Which she processed with

Mixed with green beans and beats

Pineapple and pumpkin puree

Formed into the head of Columbus himself

Baked it

Let it cool to room temperature

And then topped it with olive topinade

Made with pickles

Oh this year

My tummy wasn't strong enough to growl in the face of fear

It just ran

My legs buckled beneath me

I couldn't pay Columbus his respect today

But she insisted

Because the feet of fear are dripping with bacon grease

And reeking of old lady perfume

And my eyes begin to tear up

And i tried to eat fast enough so my taste buds wouldn't taste it

But against will

The flavors of her dish overflowed my mouth

And something began to come out of it that was so unexpected, unexplained

"Hey Ree, can i have some more?"

Tasting Tears

As I sat on the cold wooden-floor, its’ 2 feet base boards were all that could support me. I looked in her eyes. I didn’t care that my dance class was a hand reach away, poorly pointing toes and stretching hamstrings. I needed someone to talk to.

It had been a rough three months. A year started with terrible fights between friends and goodbyes, not even 2 hour phone conversations could mend, it was easy to say I was lonely. Torn between the ending of musical and the start of my phone ringing, these past two days were easily as bad as the past three months.

I must admit, I made the first move. I was talking to his ex-girlfriend, nonchalantly discussing his and my relationship. He was my best friend. The guy you call when it hits the fan, and the person you don’t mind lying in the middle of the road with, looking at the stars. We spent so much time together, racking up phone minutes and certainly never letting our fingers away from the all too constant texting. We were friends, no questions asked.

I knew he had a girlfriend. I was disgusted that a senior was dating a freshman and I never let him think differently, but he was my friend, so I supported him all the way. I supported him when he wanted to talk about how he loved her. I supported him the first and third break-up. I supported him through prom and the day we realized our tap video had hit youtube, and she was still figuring out how to dance. I supported him and respected him, so when the nonchalant conversation between her and I turned into, “Well, he never mentioned you,” I can’t really say I wasn’t completely shocked.

I suppose the sudden trash talk that slipped from my mouth wasn’t necessary. Nor the fact that she slipped away crying. Or my decision to call him and cuss him out, right in the middle of the party we were at. But he was my best friend and asking for an explanation was more than necessary. The stream of lies hurt a lot, begging me to hang up. A returned call, sunken with drunken explanation should have told me to just stop. I was cut deep. The guy who knew how much I had been through, who knew my history, something I never share, should have known better. He should have. But it never stopped.

I hit end and searched my phone book for a number to call and cry to. This was no time for stupid decisions, I should just cry it out. It was hard to find a name who I trusted, for I trust so few, but when I did, the answering machine told me to suck it up and move on. Thirty minutes later, eyes so blood shot from holding it in, were more than thankful to see her name on the caller id. I vented, for a long time to a girl who barely knew me. I was so willing to just get it out. About him. About everything. When she hung up, I stood up, feeling better that it was over, and joined my family to finish the night.

I was convinced I was stronger. That he was just a guy. That I didn’t need friends. I put it to sleep, but when I crawled into my bed his name vibrated on my bed stand. I rejected it at first, but I was convinced it was an apology waiting from my stamp of approval, so I called him back. It was the wrong decision.

Slurred by anger and probably alcohol, he began something so far from an apology, that I had to hold my breath. He began to tell me every negative, every awful, every unbearable thing about me. He created a list of things that gives a person a reason to hate me and dictated them to me. He said such awful things that I lost all strength to defend myself. I wanted to fight back. I wanted to say I didn’t believe him, but he was my best friend. If I couldn’t believe him, who could I believe?

I looked at the clock, stunned that he could drag on a minute past the current 36 minute toll of our conversation. “You jerk,” was all I could whisper into the phone, as I hit end.

I didn’t cry, he didn’t deserve my tears. I just closed my eyes and slipped into sleep. I stumbled through the morning, begging for a friend to see me and help, but none did exists.

My vision is still impaired, convinced friendship is a faux. I can’t believe in believing. If you can… tell me your story.

Passion

Writing is my passion. It always has been and i hope it always will be. It is my lover that never walks out, but stands firmly as my tears are leaked onto my keyboard. It never grows weary of my words, but listens softly as i write my own beginnings and complete my own ends. It is my soft release when things get rough and my happy smile when i just want to talk. But school essays and newspaper poetry can only be stretched so far, so this blog shall become my source for all things real. For the touching of the intangible. For the stretching of ideas and the creation of new ones. It will be a reflection of my life and all the things i live for. It will be the missing piece to my writing and my inspirational gap to fill. It is my lacuna, feel free to step inside.