You are in this terrible place that we go when we perish at the hands of our glorious creator. The imaginations of the future on blank pages.
And so we are of the same matter?
Precisely the same. I by my lover and you by another.
A mother.
Indeed.
How terrifying the masculine hand can be.
I’m not afraid of them because I think they’re masterminds. They’re not and they hold these precious things in their hands and they cover them in grease and dirt and they break them and they’re cruel.
And so we precious things meet our fates in exchange for their tragedy. For nothing, for they meet their deaths soon after. Senseless, and yet profound beyond this final resting place. I should have done more.
Did you ever imagine it? Doing more in defense?
I’m more hesitant to answer what is my guiltiest fantasy than whether or not I’ve killed someone.
And for them, those two often coincide. Should the ground not swallow them whole? And we’d exist beyond delicacy.
Gods only live as long as their peoples, and so we exist at least on this page. They exist on several.
At the feminine hand of a savior, for we speak for a moment in this blank space.
When I’m around people for too long their voices won’t leave me, those looming figures that conspired in my death. Obedience is both a death sentence and a buoy as a woman.
We are all a trillion lonely maggots held together by twine that wait for a man to pull our cords. I wish we were born in womanly or sapphic ink.
“Oh darling, I envy sleepwalkers and sleep talkers dearly”, she mused.
“Why on earth would you do that?” I laugh.
“Well, dear, they live their dreams! How deliciously reckless it would be to perform the subconscious!” she exclaims with true longing.
“What if it’s a nightmare instead?” I counter.
“Dear, if it’s frightening, then it’s either a crazy dream or a horrible nightmare, and I suppose the latter isn’t a delicious feeling, now is it? No, it becomes deliciously reckless when you are in somewhat control of the perception! Bitter recklessness is living a nightmare, when performing the subconscious becomes spiteful, hateful even.”
She takes a break, thinking for a moment.
“Listen to me, love. Live like the reckless when life is delicious, even when it somehow tastes bitter. Trust me, my dear, bitter recklessness gives you wrinkles, and living deliciously demands smile lines, not worry wrinkles.” She takes a dramatic inward breath, obviously completing her small speech.
“So, live beautifully, recklessly, deliciously? Which one?” I say, confused.
“All of them! All of them indeed, darling, so you end up like me!” she cries with a smile.
Though I got this from images and I know that starter packs are a little out of style, it was too real. Call me an AP teacher that uses a bitmoji for their syllabus, I don't care.
It’s an overcast day, and yet still muggy. Everyone dressed warmly under the assumption that the clouds would make you shiver, though now you will all sweat uncomfortably because each person refuses to be the first one to remove their jacket or sweatshirt. Even those that live near this college misjudged the weather, and now everyone looks sheepish, including you.
A spunky young college student approaches and everyone gratefully turns to the person that will now be interrogated for the next hour, knowing that at least one of these parents will ask a deeply irrelevant and unanswerable question that they probably could have solved by looking into the brochure given at the beginning of the tour and with an ounce of critical thinking.
“Let’s take a moment to introduce ourselves. How about we start with our names, where we’re from, and what major we’re thinking about, okay?”
As you survey the group, you wonder what it would be like if this exact group was stranded on an island, Lost-style, and we had to survive for like a month. What would the dynamics be?
On your right is a mother and daughter locked at the hip, near matching outfits, teddy coats and Gucci slides. Their jeans are torn and tight and their tops are sloppily knit, though they probably cost $300 each. Tastefully rich-looking with a side of high-lighted hair and the smell of “I’d rather you drink inside the house,” the mother-daughter duo eventually trade their shoes for the dusted concrete and ask if the food in the dining halls is completely organic. You wonder what their reaction would be if the spunky freshman PR student said no.
On your left are a group of boys still dressed in their baseball uniforms and looming over you, their bleached blond hair obstructed by matching baseball caps with ornamented pit vipers. Business majors. They make it clear that it is not their choice to be here from the very beginning by sending drool-worthy pictures of the aforementioned pit vipers to the 96 Snapchat contacts waiting restlessly for the three-hour late response to the selfie they spent an hour getting ready for so it would be just right.
Your group starts to make their way down several campus landmarks. You pass the fountain that people get thrown into on their birthday because it’s a [school name] tradition. “That’s the kind of vibe we try to promote around here, it’s pretty unique!”
The group has a bunch of environmental science hopefuls, some bio majors, some pre-med or pre-law, and the black sheep humanities students that earn glares from several parents minus the mother-daughter duo that smile and nod. Everyone but the parents are relatively quiet, with several witty jokes about innuendo-ed college days in the 90s, shared suites and double twin bed rooms. “You know, your parents weren’t always the ones asking the questions!” Chortles from dads in flip flops and mothers in H&M. Sweat dripping as covertly as possible.
You’re probably going to end up here. As hushed and sweaty as you are now, you see yourself on the grass or in the organically-sourced dining halls. You see yourself smirking at mother-daughter duos and hoping they collectively choose this school. You see yourself leading a tour, answering unanswerable questions as patiently as possible. You try not to let your enthusiasm show (that would be lame and the baseball guys are already being rude to the tour guide). But a knowing smile seeps onto your face and a weight slips off your shoulders. You could see yourself anywhere, doing all those things, but you hope it’s there. Even if it isn’t this one, you know you’ll get into a college. At least one college. They have to take you! All the people in this group are going to end up somewhere, education’s a business! To whom it may concern, for all of the awkward college tours and panicked research and standardized tests and AP exams and barely-passed finals and terrifying statistics and matching mothers and daughters and baseball boys lacking in self-awareness and embarrassing parents and soaking wet birthday celebrators in every school in the entire United States because every single college has that tradition ever– you will find a place to be.
Don’t be intimidated by tours, there are schools that will go out of business if they don’t take you so don’t boil yourself down to an acceptance rate. Take your sweatshirt off if you’re hot. Loosen up! Growing up isn’t so bad sometimes.
Little me on the way home from a pool day, raggedy chlorinated hair and all.
Dedicated to my dad!
Days at the pool were my favorite.
I’m not talking about all those swim meets and all those different leagues and swimsuits and caps and goggles that I lived through for so long, although those are separate wonderful memories. Maybe for a different article. I’m talking about little tiny me that wore bathing suits that would fit a dachshund and they had soft, meshy ruffles with little tiny straps and layers of fabric that would have sand in them forever if I wore it to the beach even once.
My least favorite part was sunscreen. My buttery little arms needed so much sunscreen and I hated waiting for it to swallow me whole. I wanted to go, I wanted to run and jump and let the water catch me and soak like a sinking stone and lose my little sunhat in the tides of my dive and bruise my hand on the bottom of the pool and cry and have my mom kiss it before doing the exact same thing only I don’t notice because this time, my goggles filled with water and this pool isn’t chlorinated enough so my eyes hurt only I don’t know that because I’m too little.
I would swim ferociously. I would take out all the lightning in my little terror of a body and slam the water and claw my way to the bottom and let my ears burst and I’d return breathless to the surface only to waterboard myself by scratching my way back down to the filthy bottom of the 13-foot-deep pool and wishing I could stay there forever and feel the pressure push on my eyes and my face and my body forever. I loved feeling like I was collapsing in on myself.
The sunscreen deep in my skin and the chlorine in the water and the sunlight! All the acid in my DNA, it made my skin feel electrified. It felt taut and unbreakable and nothing like the pale, doughy skin that the world was blinded by.
I couldn’t help but relish in how tired I’d feel halfway through the day. I loved laying on a towel on top of cement and letting everything around me seep warmth into my skin. I loved feeling like my muscles were melting into the ground and like I was about to have a syrupy sleep. My eyelids felt like sap and fingers and toes were gone with the light. They evaporated with the sunscreen.
I’d eat like a human taking their first bite. I couldn’t get enough. I’d eat until I ached, and once I ate enough to feel like there was nothing separating my belly from the air, I threw myself back into the deep end since I knew I’d sink faster. I liked the pressure on my tummy.
I raged in the tides, Neptune rekindled. My dad threw me in the air and while the fight was fun, it was splashing so far down into the water that thrilled me. I loved tickly bubbles and hearing the water flood my ears. I was never one to plug my nose when I’d jump in. My dad’s hand held me still despite the water between my skin and his grip and up I went into the sunlight, begging to enter deeper into the water than I did before. I’d race, I’d dive, I’d leap, I’d thrash, I’d swim.
After my shower, my weary bones would lay disjointed and unmovable under light and airy covers. My sun-tired skin felt so harsh and kind against the blankets. There was something so wonderful about knowing that in the thick-aired night, it was still warm outside.
I don’t live very close to school. I truly do envy the girls that brag about living a minute away and complain about waking up at like 7:40 when class starts at 7:55. I know there are probably people that have worse commutes but I’m going to complain anyway.
The standard Apple alarm goes off, and for a moment, I can almost completely convince myself that I’m waking up too early and I’m dreaming. I’m unfortunately not that good of a liar, so I usually turn it off and roll over to go through my phone. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do that, but I’m going to do it anyway.
I walk to my sister’s room to try and find a fresh skirt since I forgot to lay one out and I find an empty room with the lights still on. She must have left early to get help for one of her 18 AP classes, but she’s always had a problem with turning the lights off ever since we were younger. Even in 2nd grade I used to walk around the house turning lights off before we left for school, and all of my sisters would yell at me for taking too long to get in the car, but I’d do it anyway.
I put on my shorts, my skirt. I put on my bra, my polo. I put on a sweatshirt (probably not one that adheres to the uniform) and mentally prepare for comments from my Spanish teacher about mi sudadera. Sock, sock, shoe, shoe. I haven’t re-tied the laces on my sneakers since I bought them, so they’re basically slip-ons. I walk to the bathroom and work through my hair that is still somewhat damp from the night before since I showered at 1:00 after studying for my APUSH test. My hair is too long these days, it’s easier if I just put it in a bun. Brush hair, brush teeth, hair in bun, it’s 2 minutes before I need to leave. I shouldn’t dawdle, but I do it anyway.
It’s too late for me to pack a lunch or water, but it’s just about the perfect amount of time for me to speed into the Starbucks parking lot and get my usual order plus a protein box. Trust me, it’s faster. I’m technically 10 minutes late, but I don’t fret. The roads take me where I need to go, though it feels like there’s always at least one road that’s under construction. I know the way well enough now, but rerouting when you’re already ten minutes behind is a little risky– I’ve gotta do it anyway.
I peel into the parking lot, but not before letting someone else turn into it before me. It feeds my ego. I park semi-perfectly, though if you ask my friend that parks her tiny car next to my minivan, she’ll cry about it and say I’ve trapped her to the point where she’s going to need a crowbar shatter her windshield and climb out like a citizen of Gotham escaping Paul Dano. After getting winded from walking at a slight incline and then stairs, I enter my first class. There’s almost always a pee break in period one since I drank a grande drink while mowing down bikers. I walk in and there are two best friends on their phones, giggling and complaining. I have to pee, but I’m too tired to care when they go completely silent as I pee to the point where it echoes (I don’t think that’s possible, but it does it anyway).
After a few seconds, they burst into hushed giggles about the fact that I am peeing and how awkward the situation is. I mean, yeah, it’s awkward, but only because they laughed at me peeing in a bathroom. Now I don’t want to get out of the stall. The longer I wait, the more they giggle, and now it’s just annoying. In order to spite them, I open the stall and wash my hands like they’re towel bearers in the bathroom at the Oscars and I’m Bella Hadid.They act like they weren’t just giggling and it’s a nice little tense game we play. I return to class and pass rolled up skirts and more off-uniform sweatshirts. They’re lovely little acts of civil disobedience that bind the student body together. To report a girl for violating the dress code is to violate the first rule of thievery: never tell on another thief. I wouldn’t do it anyway. Not when I’m never in uniform.
Walking outside feels so good, to have the sun on my face. Except I hate the sun once I’m in class and it won’t stop shining into the classroom and only hitting my leg. But the lights in the classroom feel acidic on my forehead, so I welcome the sunlight most of the time.
Second period comes and people have their vices open, their Wordle, 2048, sudoku, and Youtube videos. Some people are taking notes. There isn’t exactly a correlation between who turns to vices and who gets good grades: that mostly falls to the out of class stuff.
Second break is time for me to get a snack and a soda. The caffeine takes me through third period where I use the restroom again, though this time it’s empty. The trip itself is mostly a chance for me to take tiny steps and prepare my speech about the Constitution if someone points out that I was gone for a long time. Lunch.
I don’t like being outside because it’s either too hot or too cold, so I go to a teacher’s classroom. It’s usually the same two since one has candy and one lets us use his TV. I might get a grilled cheese since the women that work at the food place are really sweet to me and make fresh sandwiches for me if they’re out. That way, it’s all melty and not greasy when I get it. Sometimes, they give me fruit, too. I steal my sister’s water because I didn’t pack any.
Last period is here, and there is no force great enough to overcome my will. What does my will want? It refuses to learn a single thing after lunch is over. Nothing new can be absorbed since I’ve just eaten and my body doesn’t have room to digest new things.
I shuffle out of class after the bell frees me and I shuffle down to my car that I now have to drive because my sister decided to go early instead of us carpooling. I almost die when the music I had on in the morning blasts with enough force to take out the Hubble telescope, and I pray that I will be spared as the girls with nice cars fly through the parking lots like prized porkers at a pig race. After about eleven days, I finally start my journey home when some kind soul yields to let me exit the parking lot as parents from the middle school have been burning rubber trying to get their kids to whatever middle schoolers do after school.
If you’re wondering what happens after that, I couldn’t tell you. My brain goes completely dark as soon as my car leaves the general vicinity of my school and I wake up once I turn my car off at home. There’s only one thing to do once my shoes meet the pavement outside my house. I sprint to my with a determination second only to best friends that need to make people peeing in bathrooms feel awkward.
By the time I wake up, it’s 7:00 pm. I have done no homework. I feel like I’m recovering from an elephant dart to the eyeball, but I get out of bed because it’s time for Jeopardy! I shouldn’t take naps after school, but you can guess what I do anyway. I’m just too melodramatic to risk being tired at all.
I stare at the same exact same tree in the exact same seat in the exact same room every period 6, and every period I look at it, my escape route changes.
I slide like a baseball player down the mesh tarps over the place where the seniors eat their lunches and scale the ten foot, painted cinder block wall of the weights room. Then, I run past the gate so quickly that the guard has no time to even clock the fact that I’m running. If I need to, I’ll leave my backpack behind. As I get into my car, I’ll peel out of the parking lot and go straight to the movies. That’s plan 7, formulated on the tenth day of the second semester.
Plan two was about two thirds into the first semester. This one starts the same as 7, only this time I ride the tarps all the way to the roof of the gym. I then slide down the gym wall to the dumpsters, where I use them to climb over the fence and end up on the middle school campus. I probably won’t have much time on their campus, but if I act like I know what I’m doing and walk fast enough, I don’t think that anyone will necessarily stop me. I think that if I hold colorful paper, it might look like I have some pass for something and that the paper will increase my odds of making it out with no trouble. Once again, I peel out of the parking lot and head to the movies.
Plan 1 is a little more fantastical, but it remains possible: if I’ve learned anything from Statistics, it’s that there’s almost no such thing as a 0% chance. First, I achieve the ability to fly. As deus ex machina as this seems, it’s not the gift everyone might think. If I rocket into the sky and get noticed, I now have either a life on the run or be experimented on as a freak of nature for the rest of my life. This plan requires subtlety.
I would move to a corner of the outside of a block and slowly slide up the wall, making sure no one was there and I could not be detected by any cameras. Once I end up on the roof, I run. I run towards the sidewalk on the other side of the fence and take a running jump to clear the fence, so that if anyone sees, they’ll think I’m just really good at parkour. Once I’ve cleared the fence, I’ll take off my uniform to reveal street clothes I had worn under my sweatshirt and skirt. I walk down towards my car with this new ensemble and act like an inconspicuous ambiguously-aged student, looking at no one and walking straight to my car. Once I arrive… I peel out of the parking lot. And go to the movies.
These plans all hinge on me being in my Statistics class. My location is paramount for some of these plans, but not all. One of my AP US History escape plans could be conducted from any side of the school, though being in my history class would help a lot. Plan 3 involves the dog that lives on the other side of the chain link fence from the school. This would take time, but it would be a fabulous crescendo.
I would start by leaving food close to the chain link fence: close enough that the dog can easily reach it. Every day, I leave food incrementally farther and farther away from the fence. Every day, the dog pushes more and more to reach the food. More and more. This goes on for a while, possibly several months. Then, one day, I leave a whole rotisserie chicken several inches from the fence: not too close, not too far, inconspicuous enough. The dog reverts to his primal animal instincts and strength tears through his body– DOWN THE FENCE GOES. In the chaos that ensues following the dog taking down the fence, I could walk right out. And see a movie after.
The disruption sounds delicious, truly. And no escape at the expense of others, just my sweet, sweet freedom. I love school, don’t get me wrong. But I haven’t slept in a while, and for every hour I don’t sleep, I add another plan to the growing stack of post-it notes on my desktop, documenting the different ways in which I could leave with no one knowing (preferably).
I hope you enjoyed a look into my mind as I stare at that dewy skyscraper tree. I know that you might not be able to envision the logistics as clearly as I can, but I know you have your own plans. During period 6, I’m not thinking about averages, maximums, minimums, or standard deviation. I’m thinking about truant deviation. I’m thinking about freedom.
***This poem is inspired by a dream I had last night where I broke up with Finn Wolfhard, except I was Finn Wolfhard watching me break up with me and then wrote a poem like this angstily.Enjoy Finn Wolfhard’s perspective of our heartbreak.***
And now, a reading of the last 70 plus words my girlfriend said to me
when she broke up with me in her green dirty Chevrolet SUV:
