A thank you poem (and a social skills rant)

I’m going to be honest with you

I don’t know what to write

a common plight

in my relatively English assignment free unschooled life.

I fight to figure out what to say,

five hours in advance of a shindig,

where I won’t wear a gown or walk across a stage in a funny hat as my name is read off a list,

because this is Nelson’s hippy school,

and that’s just not how we roll.

We roll in the direction of ‘artifacts’ rather than ‘assignments’

to a place where the answer to the question

“Is this mandatory?” will always be, “This is an invitation.”

It’s cool because I still get to tell people I’ve never gone to school,

at least not, “Real School,”

and bottle up those surprised looks,

the ones that say, “But you seemed so normal,”

so I can use them fuel my stilted forays into social environments.

I want you all to know that every time anyone has ever asked me one of the never ending variations on “Who did you have to assassinate to acquire social skills?” I have bitten back a retort.

“Social skills? What are social skills? Wait, I know this. Or maybe I used to because I crammed it into my head right before a test one night at 3am. Let’s see. Social skills. Is that when you are able to have functional interactions with other human beings and not make them feel really awkward for stereotyping you as a socially inept outcast due to your non-traditional education? I guess I learned it all from watching Seventh Heaven reruns every afternoon at 1. Still working out the kinks though. Please fill out this comment card with your constructive criticism or call one eight hundred-how’s-my-small-talk.”

But I don’t say that because sometime between the sleeping in and wearing my pajamas for days on end, I picked up what I like to call my social toolbox. And it’s not perfect, the lid doesn’t close all the way and the handle is rusty. But at least I learned to build relationships based on shared interest rather than mutual confinement. We can’t all say that.

So yeah, I had a friend once. It was kinda cool.

But back to my point. Matriculation.

I guess thank you is in order. See, I have enough social skills for that.

Thank

you.

I can’t find a way to express what I want to say that’s not a hopeless cliche

but one day,

I might have it down.

one day I might have a language to express all this misplaced gratitude but until then, I have this one simple word to lay in front of you, knowing full well it won’t be enough to measure up to all the cups of tea and hugs you proffered on those too often bad days. All the support and love, without which I would not have made it to this stage.

Thanks.

pop up books

You take me to the valley that you’ve told me I smell like

and I’ve never been here but with your hand in mine, I feel at home.

On the way, you narrate a physical history of you,

weaving a landscape of lazy river drifting and 35 kilometer per hour car crashes,

before my tired eyes, events come to life like some kind of pop up picture book,

the pages of which I sleepily turn while listening to my bedtime story.

And I would listen to all the pop up books you had to offer in the hopes

that I might uncover something about you that no other

person knows just to show you that I love you,

like no one ever has,

and no one ever will

again.

You may accuse me of paying the barest attention,

but my information retention is just fine.
I may look dazed but mostly

I’m stuck reveling in this backdrop,

how it’s brought new parts of you into focus,

like after it rains and everything is three shades brighter.

So I just grin and hold on tighter to your hand and this rare moment.

And it’s in these moments that I think that love was something invented

so that we could fall into it,

or over it, or onto it, somewhere near it, all I know is falling,

in the best way with your arms around me.

And maybe that’s selfish. But hell, I am a Bounty paper towel of self absorption,

I’m not afraid to admit it,

any more than I’m afraid to fall into this thing that was meant for us.

So if you want, I'll be your half sarcastic half enthusiastic co-pilot,

I’ll adventure with you until our aged bodies crumble,

and even a little after that.

educated virgin

This is a poem I wrote. Kinda self explanatory. I hope it makes you feel really awkward (like maybe how you feel reading poems I wrote about my ex-girlfriend) and that you regret creeping my blog and not leaving comments.

Kidding. I'm kidding. I hope it illuminates a part of my soul that you may be unfamiliar with and that it brings us closer in strange and beautiful ways.

*****

I’m not a whore,

I’m just an educated virgin,

carrying apple flavoured condoms around in my back pocket,

because you never really know.

you never really know.

and better safe than sorry, right?

Or safer because sex isn’t safe.

What’s safe about baring your whole body,

placing yourself delicately in another’s arms,

for them to break or bend.

tell me

what’s safe about sex?

I am a slut,

AND an educated virgin and you may think

that this is an oxymoron

but I can assure you with my voice,

the one that moans into my pillowcase at night,

that you would be far from accurate,

that my sluttiness exceeds the boundaries of any penis,

and I’d rather be defined by myself than someone’s dick.

I’m not a whore,

but if I was,

I still wouldn’t deserve your judgement.

No, I’m just an educated virgin,

opening my apple flavoured condoms in the park,

curious to know if they actually taste like apples,

or just vaguely sugary latex.

And I’m shoving protection back in my bag

when I realize that I’m sitting in a park,

licking a condom.

Really, Alex?

Really?

I’m just an educated virgin.

For now.

bandages and maps

Your birthday is still my bank pin.

I know I should change it, I know.

But it’s not like it’s my main card,

just the one for family groceries and things.

Still, every time I’m at the checkout with my jug of milk or shampoo,

I get to celebrate the simple fact that you

are alive.

You see, I told myself I was going to stop writing poetry about you.

And I lied.

Because writing poems about you is as easy as putting too much sugar in my tea.

I know I should be weaning back on my dependency

but the sweetness is irresistibly

pulling and I’m tired of resisting.

I’m tired of telling myself to stop thinking about you.

It’s exhausting. Like falling asleep when you’re so tired you don’t remember how.

Logically, I know there was a time when your voice meant less to me and your name, said aloud, didn’t bring tension to my body like the cold days I’ve gotten all too used to.

But logic doesn’t sink through my skin as the feel of your sharp hips once did.

Sometimes, I sit on my floor like a philosopher, tracing the lines on my palm to see if I can figure out where it all went wrong. I think we spent so much energy trying to let each other go while clinging tighter, creating our own world in which we could be together. Lying through quick messages, spelled out through fingers didn’t believe us. But I wanted to.

I wanted to believe we could be friends, people who didn’t hurt each other by being themselves.

But If I wanted to take back all the pain I would have to unravel every second we spent together because like that knitted sweater I never made you, the imperfections are a part of the design,

helplessly intertwined with the wool and the warmth.

I cannot forget you.

So I have to believe that one day, we will be friends. One day we will be people who sit on lawn furniture and drink wine together and I know you probably don’t like wine and maybe you never will so I’ll let you drink Mountain Dew and I’ll even pretend I’m not judging you.

The bandages we wrapped around ourselves to hide the marks of each other will fall away to reveal maps that tell us who we are.

They’ll say that you

will always be a part of me.

But for now, I’ll change my bank pin.

it's complicated

when I was into boys, just boys,

life was easy.

a series of make believe crushes I convinced myself to have,

so that I could be like the others.

And then a real crush,

a does-he-like-me crush

a fall-asleep-thinking-of-his-face crush.

But he 

just wanted to be friends 

and I

had read enough chapters of He’s Just Not That Into You

sitting in a neglected corner of that bookstore in Seattle

to know that I

deserved someone who wanted me back.

Then I fell

into something new

a pool

of fluidity.

My relationship to my sexuality,

shifting, changing, transforming into something

I still don’t have a label for.

now 'it's complicated'
is the subheading
to my life.

in the snow

somehow
it seems like time has slowed
or stopped.
the loudest voice
is a whisper.
somehow
walking home through the falling snow
forgiveness is in reach.
wanting peace with myself
trumps the urge to self loathe.
somehow
the sharpest words
thrown through my mind
decide the scars aren't worth my time
every stupid thing said or done--
hurts caused by my carelessness--
fade to gray.

snowflakes brush my cheeks
plant tiny wet kisses on my flushed face
reassurance that the world spins on,
out of my view.

fingers whisper

Put your hands against my rib-cage,
Pull me closer into you,
Blur the lines,
Turn out the lights,
Your fingers whisper
what is true.

bedroom windows, part three

It's been too long since that night. Too long since I opened my eyes to her sleeping right next to me, not remembering where I was and very suddenly realizing that I didn't care.

Partly because I can't remember every detail, I won't chronicle it all. In a way, I just need to finish this story before it slips away irrevocably.

I remember the struggle to leave the bed. I remember not wanting to fight her, wanting to surrender and stay there forever. But my dad was picking me up and I had a window to sneak out of. A window that I did not particularly want to climb through again.

I was crossing my fingers that she would tell me to leave through the front door. It wasn't a school night, we hadn't done anything wrong and I had a feeling my presence in her room that morning was anything but a secret from her mom. But Niki insisted with her eyes and then climbed out the window ahead of me.

Passing her my bag as I stepped onto the desk chair, I glanced back at her bedroom door, now ajar. Someone had pushed it open that morning and we were hoping it was one of her dogs. Halfway out the window, I heard the smashing sound and my body tensed. I wasn't sure what I had knocked off the windowsill and broken but I was positive that footsteps were rapidly coming down the hall and that her mom's voice was cheerily calling out good morning.

As Niki's face turned bright red, it occurred to me  that it's sometimes easier to sneak in than out. Doing things by the light of the moon feels stealthy and badass but once the sun had come up, all the rebellion guilt and clumsiness splattered across my body like a thick layer of paint.

Niki was so embarrassed but I didn't want to melt into a muddle of invisibility. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of my life. Her mom was giving us the benefit of the doubt and seemed genuinely pleased to see me there, awkwardly loitering outside of her daughter's bedroom window, a window I had obviously just failed to escape through. I stood there, leaning against the side of the house as I was offered breakfast, coffee, fruit or maybe pancakes and declined it all as Niki muttered, "You couldn't just let me have this one teenagery thing, Mom."

I pleaded my departure and eventually fled, smiling at the vindication of getting caught. There's something so pure and satisfying about the suspense ending, the worst thing happening, having it not be that terrible. There's something to be said about a mother who is endlessly hospitable to a teenager who just climbed out a window rather than exit through the front door.

It was the end of my summer, officially. The best night and the most eventful morning, one of those momentous occasions that reaffirms my "no regrets" philosophy. If the opportunity presented itself again, I would seize it. Next time, though--given the choice--I'd take breakfast.

Breathless

Your fingers trace 

snowflake patterns on my skin,

never the same one twice.

I curl towards your touch

and away reflexively--

An exhale to match the inhale.

But my breath is far from even;

My focus out of tune.

You've taken all my sanity;

I'm breathless thanks to you.

bedroom windows, part two

If I had taken the time to imagine the first time I would sneak into a girl's window, I doubt it would have looked like this.

I doubt I would have imagined myself standing at a locked window, waiting for Niki to break into her own house through another entrance because she forgot her key. Yet I did stand outside that locked window. And I did wait, smiling to myself about what I was about to do. Even after the light turned on in her bedroom, I stood outside her window, watching the shadows dance across the shades as Niki moved around her room, throwing her possessions around in a last ditch attempt at tidying.

Finally, she opened the window and smiled a mischievous grin at me, her coconspirator. But there was a tentative edge to that smile that made my stomach tense momentarily. I stepped onto the plastic deck chair that we had positioned underneath her window. Holding my breath and thinking stealthy thoughts, I pulled myself off the moonlit chair and onto the window sill. Then came the awkwardness of my legs but Niki was right there on the other side so I slid into her arms and she maneuvered me into the bedroom.

I kind of cleaned up, in case this happened, she said, sheepish and I wanted to take that sheepishness in my hands and hold it close. I wanted to hold every part of her close but I collapsed onto her bed and settled for squeezing the stuffies I'd left in her care months previously.

The events that followed displayed all of the splendid awkwardnesses that one can expect from teenagers illicitly occupying each others bedrooms. There was the moment when her brother stood outside the door and I shoved a pillow in my face to muffle the giggles I couldn't contain. There was the familiar feeI of the pajamas I wore, ones I'd seen Niki wear at sleepover after sleepover, none of which had taken place in her bedroom. There was the fact that I flossed my teeth but didn't brush, as Niki's brother remained in the kitchen making eggs. We set an alarm for my departure the next morning and then fell into bed, exhausted with our supposed rebellion.

I can't describe accurately enough the feeling of lying in Niki's dark bedroom, our limbs a tangled mess of each other and even if I could, I can't say I'd want to. I remember the moonlight and my eyes refusing to stay open and our bodies so close and molded to the other's that we were like Lego, slowly becoming one whole. There was warmth, sometimes too much, and I kept throwing the covers off and then dragging them back on. As I said, I can't describe it perfectly but I can say that if I could chose one moment from my summer to go back to and live in forever, it would be that one and I would spend the rest of eternity wrapped in her pale arms. I wish I could have stayed awake longer to appreciate it but my body refused to cooperate and sleep washed over me like a drug.

bedroom windows, part one

It wasn't as if I planned it like this. If I had planed to be sneaking out of Niki's bedroom window at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, I would have stuck a toothbrush in my pocket when I left home. Like the best deranged plans, this one was spur of the moment.
I hesitate by the window, looking back and forth from the chair waiting for me against the wall and my pajama clad friend. She looks at me expectantly and then sighs a little and hops onto the chair herself. Niki is out the window before I can calculate the improbability of my circumstances. Glancing back at the slightly open door, hoping no one wanders in, I step onto the desk chair and propel myself onto the window sill.
***
The night previously, I had expected to be home by 10:30. I had a ride and everything. My friend dropped me off in town and I left most of my stuff stashed in her car. I thought I was coming back for it. I set off to meet Niki, throwing on my red cape as I walked. I can't say what made me want to wear it. It was one of those random things.
When I imagine myself walking up to her, I'm sure it's way more badass in my mind. I pulled my hood up so that from behind you could only see the bottom half of my black skinny jeans, the red hooded cloak covering the rest of my frame. The cloak blew slightly open in the wind as I half skipped up to Niki. She smiled at me and then at my cape and I wanted her to stare at me for decades and also for her to never look at me again. It was like being frozen in a spotlight and I only moved when she decided to release me.
We started to walk in the only real direction worth walking and our hands found each other magnetically. Her touch made my palm tingle gently. Moving through the quiet streets with Niki at my side--our fingers intertwined, both reaching and relaxed, like ivy on an English country home--I had a surreal feeling of being  completely present, like I was in the exact right place at the exact right time. My happiness at being alive with her at that precise second must have radiated from my body in waves.
If it were a dream, we would have glided through town for an endless amount of time, provoking smiles and pausing traffic, as every person tried to figure out what was so right about us and how they could copy it. Our glow was inimitable and imperfect.
But in reality, there was deep fried sushi to eat and texts to be sent. There were friends to console and dark train tracks to walk down. There were iPods to give away and goodbyes to be whispered. There were hugs to be hugged and benches to be loitered on. It was a different sort of gliding around town that took place that Friday evening.
At what I thought was near the end of our night together, Niki sat on a bus bench and I sat on her. We appeared to wait for a bus that had stopped running hours ago as we both put off our inevitable separation. I kept troubleshooting the moment I would have to leave her and delaying it and waiting for her to tell me to come over to her house and knowing that she wouldn't. But it hurt to keep drawing out the end when I knew I couldn't put it off indefinitely so I texted my dad for a ride and when he said sure and asked where I was, I looked into her eyes and said what I promised myself I wouldn't: "Could I sneak in your bedroom window tonight?"

fractured memories part 4

Remember when I hugged you

before security swallowed me whole

and I calculated how much explaining

you'd have to do,

if I kissed you right there.

I wouldn't have had to deal,

could have stolen

through the frosted doors

without a glance back,

left you to blank looks

and questioning eyes.

I hesitated, arms around you,

working up the nerve.

But I pulled away,

without even brushing my lips

across your cheek.

And I'm not the type of girl

who has regrets,

but god,

I regret that.

it kind of rhymes (weird)

I was that girl
to whom texting was incorrigible
until I started texting her.
I was that girl
who scoffed at thumbs on tiny keyboards
until my fingertips drafted messages
to her.
I am that girl
who smiles to herself
when texting is discussed in crowds.
I am that girl
who never thought
she'd be writing texts out loud.
Again and again,
I surprise myself.
It makes me feel quite free,
to still not know just who I am,
or what's left for me to be.

I would follow you anywhere

Footsteps on unfamiliar footpaths,
we attempt to find our way back.
The rain picks up,
I whisper to the sky,
Perfect timing.
You panic, shove the sugar my way,
I giggle, lift my shirt to hide
the paper bag from raindrops
that threaten to destroy it.
We stumble down the trail,
spin in all directions,
not knowing which trail is ours.
You pull me to the right,
I follow because it's you and
I would follow you anywhere.

Baskin Robins, soccer kleats

After every soccer game
of my youth, back
when I played soccer
and not solitaire,
my dad would take me to Baskin Robins.
"Win or lose,"
he'd say.
I wanted to win.

Today, I walked past,
glanced through the glass,
at all 31 flavours,
didn't stop walking
but lingered on the memory
of flavour swirling through my mind.
Soccer kleats still on my feet,
smile as wide as PEI rainbows.

life goals

I just want to fill
a lifetime of notebooks
with bad poetry;
raise children with my sister;
smile while I sleep;
spend hours on letters,
I know I'll never send;
read a library of books
and pour more tea
than I'll consume,
constantly marvelling
at every refraction of light
my imperfect eyes perceive.

Remember
when we stood on the rooftop
let the stars kiss our noses
my favourite people
under one sky

sitting in a treehouse
raindrops caught on leaves and branches
instead of her head.
love spilling from her shirtsleeves,
crammed underneath fingernails
lodged in the space behind her ear,
for a girl who loves comic sans.
the platform is heavy, strained
from the weight of her suppressed expectations
she knows from the dark circles
under her eyes, reflected in the sky
disappointment is the root of most heartache
she's trying to cut it off early,
intercept it like an amateur athlete's pass
rip out nine stitches in her own time
rather than watch them taken
into less gentle hands
waiting for the moment when she can let out
the breath she swore she wouldn't hold.

some haikus I wrote in May

Eighteen years old, lost
without needing to be found
for her, maps beckon
--------------------------
I promised okay
Fingers crossed you'd feel that way
Easier everyday
--------------------------
I used to love maps
Now all that they show
Is distance between

fractured memories part 3

Remember when we swayed,
eyes open, arms splayed
to the rhythm of our memories.
Fingers combing the air
the way I move my through your hair
not needing to be anywhere
we weren't.
You fixed yourself in the light
spilling from my cracks.
I held you, whispered slowly,
promised to come back