isn’t every moment more precious than the last?
there will never be another october thirteenth, twenty twenty-two
i’m in a race to make enough good memories to outweigh the bad ones,
and the bad ones are always hard on my heels
core memories that come to mind:
† a cacophony of fried vocal cords, tequila, and friendship while dancing to whitney houston in the back of a strobing party bus
† when i was three - the day my dad left
† the first time i spoke with death
my mother tried tradition
it never stuck quite like my strawberry jam on countertops
but every christmas, we would make apple pie
and every christmas since, i make apple pie
make and make and make enough and it becomes a memory
---
a poem that tastes antique:
cinnamon sandbox
scoured by sticky
kid fingers mother’s opal ring stirs
silk apple slices
awash with beads of
lemon & sugar scraps
some breezy texas holiday
easy sneaking a honeyed wedge
or two
mother tucks them in their butter-soft bed
presses fork to edge
around like
secondhand of a clock
nip of nutmeg bake for thirty minutes
or until sweet syrup oozes from
three x’s
i’m ravenous
sweet-toothed and spiced
mother’s only mess
in cinnamon-stained chiffon
---
some people know and others don’t – and those that don’t know won’t be surprised and the ones that do know weren’t –my psyche is sticky sick
i do not consider it a superpower, nor do i consider it a flaw
i consider it a good reason to communicate as effectively as possible because my mind is made of glass
i cradle it with gloves on
we should challenge ourselves to reframe success as memory-making / joy-seeking / love-giving rather than the number of likes on a post
bodies in an audience
names on a marquee
streams on a record
i am always running
unclear if it’s towards something or away
seek joy and she will find you
when doors are closed in your face
build your own frames
hence why i’m ready to run
here is a panic room
being an artist means interrogating visibility versus patience versus promise
a large part of me makes art and crooks words and makes pie because i ache for someone to see
another part of me is in a rush / am a blur
a part of me knows i’ll never make it there
my high vibrational self is static
my low vibrational self is writing shit like this
make and make and make and
core memories that come to mind:
† at the funeral of my dear friend’s mother, who was my own mother’s best friend, after she succumbed to her long battle with breast cancer, and her husband sat at the altar of the church with his cello and played a song he wrote for her, saturating a room of stagnated lungs, time irrelevant and condemned, and i don’t think i’ve ever cried so hard
† the final scene of the first performance of a relived nightmare
† names and faces of soulmates like rashaun, kyle, kate, mo, cheyney, sam, taylor, zak, katlin, erika, matt, and rose
† the first time i looked death in the eye
we shouldn’t be worried about being chosen when we can and should choose ourselves
hence, communication
i think love is asking
ask about a day
ask about a heart
what’s your favorite flavor of pie
one of my close friends recently asked me what the happiest moment of my life has been so far – i could only measure it in faces
i wish i cried more
maybe more people would ask
the happiest moment of my life: the moment i finally broke open
even though nobody asked –
i asked me and i answered
core memories that come to mind:
† when i traveled by myself between california and texas four times in three months and my independence paid off – i can eat a whole pie on my own
† when i scooted away from my lord of the rings themed neopets guild and cried realizing frodo baggins and i would never be together because he isn’t real
(i told someone about this recently / tucked myself in embarrassment – they reminded me it’s actually quite soft)
† apple pies
† the first-time death almost led me home