075. In My Control

tldr: what can I change?

A story in three poems (in one post).

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My Handwriting Looks like Your

I write in an almost faux-cursive,
with the audacity of an young snobby girl who wants to be “better” than everyone,
but also the simplicity of a man who doesn’t want people to think he cares when he does.

My c‘s loop into l‘s as I cling onto faux-memories of a family that,
though in a way is nuclear,
avoids clarity.
My a‘s swirl with the i‘s when painful realities struggle to flow out of my pen,
and I fail to remember the words
behind the tears that fell frailly.

I sat down to write about anything else,
but as much as I don’t want to be thinking about you right now,
it doesn’t help when my handwriting looks like yours.

I see it when I sign my name,
I see it when I lie.
I see it when I miss not missing you,
I see it when I cry.

Because though the words don’t flow,
the tears will do just fine.
One day my handwriting won’t look like yours;
one day it’ll look like mine.

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Smiling

The daith bled profusely when the needle passed through.
The headache I came into the shop with pulsed out of my ear.
I laid on the chair trying not to tense up.
And then it was over.

—

The month following, I felt the pain of the piercing here and there.
When I smiled, I could feel a tiny shock through my body–
a reminder of my semi-happiness.

When I got to MIT, the pain got worse.

—

The next person to get up on the chair also got a daith.
She didn’t bleed.
I wonder if she felt the pain
of smiling.

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At Rest

One day, I won’t have summer or winter breaks to visit my hometown,
so month long (and yet very short) visits will turn into weeks then weekends.
It feels quiet there in a way I don’t think the east coast ever will,
at rest almost.

I’ve been feeling this pressure on my chest,
this intense want, and intense need, to just fall to the ground and stay there for a while.
I wouldn’t feel hollow or sad; just the cold tile against my forehead,
and a gentle hand on my back from a person I can’t see.