Author: Ashley

another year, another

set of candles on

another cake —

(I’ve heard that birthday wishes

sometimes

maybe

perhaps

come true?) —

I make the wish for the third time.

you.

you.

you.

— (I’ve heard that occasionally

just incidentally

hopefully

the wish you make with one

breath, has a chance?) —

you want me to stop

wishing it, want me to stop

hoping it, praying it

wasting my breath on

dandelions and too faint flames and

bare footsteps in the night-dew

grass under the stars, wishing…

but I can’t help wishing

just like I can’t help breathing

because to stop wishing

you

you

you

would be to stop being

me–

(have you heard it too? that

once upon a time, in a land

far far away, perhaps

on a star with a boy

and a fox

and a rose

wishes

could

come true?)

I’ve gotten pretty good at crying

and driving.

 

Somehow walking out the door

after you walk in

doesn’t get any easier.

I’m angry, and it surprises me.

I’m never angry.

But still, I’m not angry

at you.

I would never have left you the way

you left me–

but you thought we were impossible.

I would go through any pain for you. Die for you. Do

anything to reach you.

You–wouldn’t. But I don’t think it’s because

you decided I wasn’t enough–I just think you didn’t

know how.

I am angry. Not at you.

Just hurting.

Because I love you.

And it hurts you too much

to look at me.

 

Here’s the trick to crying and driving–

you pretend it’s blurry because it’s raining

because it always is.

two years ago.

two years ago, to the day.

we climbed on two vans on a misty morning

and drove for the mountains.

it was cold. in the backseat I laid my head

on your shoulder. I was happy.

that night, we sat on the creaky steps surrounded

by handprints, red and yellow and blue, cradled steaming

mugs of tea and whispered as the rest settled into sleep

stacked into bunks and sprawled on mattresses.

we were happy just to be with each other, to sit and breathe

and be and know we were wanted by someone that mattered.

we asked important questions in the quiet. we would ask even more

important questions later. we would cross terrifying, beautiful

lines that could not be uncrossed.

by the end of the week, I knew that I loved you.

to be honest, I knew long before then.

two years ago.

two years ago, to the day.

I love you still.

clay on my hands, grey, cold

colder than expected, pleasant

against my skin. wedge the clay, palms

squishing it into itself, spiral, spiral

fold, drop, toss into a ball, hand to hand

pat pat, pat pat. slam onto center

of the wheel, wham down twice

with my palm. start the wheel

dip my hands in the water, luke-

warm, cup the clay and squeeze

squeeze, squeeze–fingers pressing

pulling it up, up into a shaking cone

pushing it back down, down, side

of my right hand pressing, left

hand supporting. thumbs press down, in

rhythm, slow, not too thin, not too

fast. pull out, pull up, knuckle braced

on thumb, fingers slowly grasping

caressing the earth into fluid

motion, making something out of

something that was once

something that was once

nothing that was breathed into

life a long, long time ago.

it is not easy this, spinning

balance, this finding the still point

exactly in the middle

and shaping everything around it

centered. it tips and wobbles and

lurches beyond repair and I

squish it all into a shapeless lump

and start again, clay squishing between

my fingers, until something

emerges, something that has

worth, something I can make

beautiful. but I guess this raw earth

this handful of cool, grey clay

has worth by simply being

by simply having the potential

to be something more–

and so it already is.

this is the first thing I’ve learned

for me and only

me and I breathe and it calms

the always unsteady sea inside

of me. and yet as I press and

smooth and cup and

shape, as my fingers glide over

nothing becoming

something, I cannot help but

think of you

and think of how I can’t help

wanting to give you something

beautiful.

every so often

I sit down

say–

I’m tired

I’m so

so tired–

and it’s true.

I cry.

quietly, usually

loudly, sometimes

hug myself tight

tighter

because I won’t

let anyone else

do it for me.

I dry my eyes.

I get up.

I walk.

I tell no one.

I’ve gotten so used

to doing things alone

I’d rather continue

to do them alone

eat and wash and

work and make

walk and sleep and

cry and pray.

I’m tired of being with others

always wishing they were you

easier to be alone than keep

my armor up, make sure they can’t

come too close, arm’s length

double is better

easier to live alone without

others’ emotions messing with mine

touching the tender places

bumping up against walls

they don’t even know are there

that I won’t take down.

You say don’t wait

But I can’t in the ways

You want me to.

I want a brighter life

I will reach, I am

reaching for it

There are glimmers

I am relearning to savor

things that are sweet.

But there are limits–

I’d rather be alone than with

someone who isn’t you.

I am the girl

They can never catch

A smile disappearing around the corner

A voice fading on the breeze

Bare feet on the dirt path

Haunted eyes in the trees

I’ll never understand

Why they want to get to know me

They’ll never understand

How I can’t forget

you were the first

person

anything

that enabled me

to say no.

no.

a delicious

dangerous

empowering word.

one syllable

heavy like

a bomb blast.

they said let you go.

I said no.

my love is mine

to give or withhold.

I’d never dared to risk

displeasure

disapproval

not in the end

for the final

decision, only courting

the idea

of rebellion.

you are still gone

but no comes easier

staying rooted

in myself

not believing I always

must be wrong

if they say

I am

because I say no

every day

holding on to love

holding on to you.

I don’t feel terrible

Not as terrible as I know

it can be

But I keep returning to my bed

legs slipping back under

pleasantly rumpled sheets

like my feet don’t know

a path that doesn’t

lead back to warm, soft

shadow, comfort

denial, a cocoon from which

I never emerge

I keep finding myself there only

minutes after I leave only

mildly surprised–oh

well, I guess here I am

again.

it shattered into dust

and little jagged shards

that I somehow swept up

in the palm of my hand

and squeezed into a semblance

of a crooked, crumbling sphere.

it needed walls around it

hard, unyielding, a crust never

to be breached, just to hold

it together, to protect what’s left

of the most important parts of me.

no one can get in, nothing

can get out, impenetrable

inescapable, stubborn, unwilling

loyal, afraid. but of course

you are the exception. you

are always the exception.