i want to believe that everything is right and fine and fine and right, but what is life when everything is right?
i find solace in wrong, the fact that i am wrong. wrong is the antithesis to perfect, to correctness, to things that make you feel like you are someone capable. of what? i don’t know. maybe of something. maybe nothing.
i am right. i am wrong. and i am all those things in between, i am perfect and imperfect and scarred and unmarred and there is no balance in me to keep me ‘well-rounded’, as they would say, there is no ‘well-rounding’.
because if there is then i would be right.
how close am i to losing you
so sweet. your words, so sweet, traced into my back: i never deciphered them, but it was the act that made it so emotional.
so sweet. you, the person you are, the way i laid next to you. you said i was someone you would want to protect.
so sweet. your sweet tooth, diabetic habits, deadly; some needed drugs, you needed sugar.
every part of you i could pin to the wall like an arrow to a target, every memory, every frayed edge, every sad particle of skin that you shed. it scares me to see you this way, it scared you to see me scared of you, and i wish you were well, fine, well, alright, all these words that could never be right, okay. i feel that you are still here, and i know you are still here, but you are hollow and the person that was once a stranger to me is a stranger again, stranger and ever so stranger. come back to me, come home, come back, please don’t leave me alone to share what we both don’t know.
mamihlapinatapai
i can’t imagine how many looks have passed between us since. every single glance, stare, stolen breath, half-closed gazes and silent phrases…i knew what was going on in your mind but i know you didn’t in mine, because you told me i was hard to read and perhaps that’s a good thing, that you can’t read me, you can’t know me. i can’t be the book you study, i have to be the thing you observe, and even then you’re terrified, and i’m sorry you’re terrified, i didn’t mean to scare you. it’s delicate, this love is delicate, i’m delicate, this - this, this is delicate.
your favorite photo of me
your favorite photo of me was a picture of me draped only in your blue dress shirt and simple black underwear, my hair in bun, top of my head pressed to the wall on your dark wooden floors, sitting crossed legged, reading a book. you took this some mornings ago. a lot of mornings ago. all these mornings you would have a cup of black coffee and the morning paper. but not that morning, that morning you picked up your leica and took that photo of what i do before you’re awake. and i wasn’t aware that you were there, i didn’t find this photo until some time later. but you wrote on the back, “this was my favorite photo of you”.
you said i looked fragile but serene, like a lost little girl waiting patiently to find her mother in a store. you told me you wanted to hold me close, hold me near, protect me like you would with a kitten. you called me a kitten, your kitten. yet in that moment nothing was near me, nothing but the bare light of morning coming in. your arms were nowhere to be seen, those that could hold so much, hoist me up, the presence of you was gone, like you are gone now. but that’s why i guess this was your favorite photo of me, because it was, and i’m not anymore. and that’s so sad, so sad, so sad. we knew it wouldn’t work out, but you were there and so was i, and together we held each other up in that one single moment, yet you wouldn’t share it with me to be in that picture together.
how could you even bear to be with someone like me
i was so unsure of everything the night before, i mean, i couldn’t wrap my head around what i wanted to do, i told you right when i met up with you that i was indecisive and that you should pick. then you had your wine, and it was nice to relax a bit, realize that these nerves are from uncertainty, not hope - understand that i was too young, i still am too young. it’s lovely to see someone terrified of offending me, and i said you were scared, and you probably were, i could see it from your choice of words, your “pardon my language” and “excuse me”s, but i could never know why, if anything, i was tiny and unraveled in your eyes. it was too loud, you wanted to leave and walk, so we did that, and you wanted dessert so we moved on to four seasons despite living in a city stuck in two which felt so extreme that night. you apologized profusely for making me feel out of place, that a setting like this wasn’t for someone like me, but you never thought of me as a boston hardcore lover anyway, or someone bold enough to get a tattoo, and you thought you were boring me but not for a single second did i ever believe that sentiment to be true. there are rules and things that one should never talk about unless a certain comfort zone boundary has been passed, and we broke many of the cardinal rules of not talking about politics, economics, and issues that will forever be under fire. perhaps we broke the single most important rule: we ran overtime by two hours, we pushed the limit of the hour until the last train home, we even considered not going home until we saw the humid rainclouds pass above our heads at three in the morning. you loved my name, you repeated it, and repeated it, and repeated it - but never once did i actually refer to you by name. i don’t think i’ve ever had someone like a ridiculous name like mine as much as you did. you’re not going to find me using that though, so maybe one day i’ll tell you how you can find me. i let slip some, but i didn’t tell you all. i said i’ll see you in the next few weeks, you said that i said weeks like millennia. and god, i can’t wait to see you again.
it used to be easy writing.
are you awake? are you alone?/because it’s your beside that’s cold with the seasons shaking you, your own words devoid of you/and i hope when i leave you don’t look back/and all the things you say are as sharp as the teeth in your mouth/you can’t sever those ties when you’ve used up all your knives throwing them into someone else’s back/and just because i’m not you doesn’t ever mean i’m not good enough
(via jessicatam)
glad i didn’t introduce my favorite bands to you, or else they’ll always be ruined for me
when i was fourteen and on a school trip, i was accidentally left behind in japan. i could barely speak the language, it was dark and cold and i had no idea where i was going. i was in a train station in a rural part of the country, and i ran back to the platform hoping to catch a glimpse of someone i knew, anyone; but that was foolish and acted out on account of desperate hope. i ran to the ticket counter, where there was a man there, asked him if he had seen a group of people walking past. he spoke no english. i imitated a bunch of people walking to the left of the station with my hands. hidari? he nodded. i ran out.
there was no one around. several people were in the waiting room of the station, where it was warm and there were a few vending machines selling hot corn soup and coffee, but i didn’t need food, i needed to know i was okay. i sat in the waiting room for a minute before i realized staying in one place was stupid, and i walked out into the cold, mountainous air again. it was there that i saw a few men dressed in black with a cap. men in uniform. they had to be police, but no - they were huddled around taxis. taxi drivers. police. that was it. i looked frantically around for a police officer, but none were seen until i looked to my right and a police box with the word koban was right in front of me. at the point, walking wasn’t something i could do without thinking - my first instinct was to run.
i ran into the koban. the two police officers on duty seemed unfazed to see me, until i started spewing a stream of english words. they didn’t understand, and brought out a large laminated sheet with different scenarios on them, all followed in different languages. fighting back tears, all i could stutter was eigo. eigo desu. i stabbed a finger at the scenario that clearly said in english, “i’m lost”. i couldn’t speak the language, but i was decent at being able to understand it. one officer asked if i had a number i could call. i told him i might. i tried to call a friend’s number, a friend that was with me on the trip, but no luck. i tried calling home. it didn’t work. at this point i wasn’t scared anymore, just terrified at what my expenses were going to be when i had to make an at least one day trip back to a major city to get to an airport and fly home alone. i remember thinking very clearly, “my mother is going to kill me”. upon thinking about flying home on my own dime, i remembered that i had to get through customs first. customs? right, i had a photocopy of my passport and identification. i passed that along to one of the officers while the other dialed another number to get me someone who spoke fluent english. my name was being written down and i was asked what nationality i was (“honkon-jin to kanada-jin desu) when i was told to speak into the receiver.
the man on the other end seemed confused. “what is your emergency?”
“i’m lost. my group left without me and they’re on another two hour hike.”
“do you know where your group is staying?”
“no.”
“uhh…that makes it very difficult for me to help you. you don’t have any numbers you can call?”
“no.”
“well…i can’t do anything about it right now so you will have to wait for me to get there. i will be there in about forty minutes. is that okay for you?”
“yes. it’s fine. thank you.”
i hung up, and sat down in a chair, staring out the glass windows hoping that someone i recognized came running back for me. a few more minutes passed, the officer gave me back my photocopy, and it was then i noticed a shadow running back towards the station. i recognized him as my tour guide, cried “arigatou!” to the officers, and ran out the doors again. standing outside the station facing the running silhouette, i screamed “john!” he whipped around and came towards me, and an officer who came out the door behind me spoke to him sternly. all john translated was “he’s not very happy with me” before both of us told the cop “arigatou gozaimasu” and he told me, “it was very smart of you to find a police box, though next time, stay in the station until we find you.”
