An Open Letter to the Guy who Ghosted Me

Dear Boy I hung out with who is ghosting me,

and by ghosting I mean

pretending I’m a ghost every time he sees me,

Hi. Haven’t said that word to you in a long time.

I actually don’t know if we ever dated,

and if you’re confused about how that happened, hang on

I’ll explain.

 

but the way you act around me makes me feel that we did

because the air around us has the uncomfortable stench of heartbroken exes

and by that I mean I get the vibe that you want to murder me.

 

Okay, maybe that’s exaggerating.

Maybe it’s more like looking forward to sound of my neck breaking

or waiting for a piano to fall over my head like in the old movies,

or just hoping that I’ll evaporate into thin air

or hoping you’ll make me care?

 

Now that I think of it, everything about you is an enigma to me,

including the fact that I missed all the blaring red flags I could see.

 

So I invited you to the music festival, and you said yes

and I invited you to the movies, and you said yes

then I invited you to my house, and you said yes

and then I invited you to look at the paintings of the stars with me, and you said yes,

and I invited you to lie on the grass with me, and you said yes

and you did actually lie. Literally. To me.

When you told me you’re a sensitive guy.

Should have just told you, “Boy, bye.”

Because whenever they say they’re specifically something or someone,

girl, you better grab your things and run.

 

So after all of that, I invited you to the park with me, and you said no

I invited you to go ice skating with me, and you said no,

So I asked you if something was wrong between you and me, and you said no,

and I asked you if you’re angry with me, and you said no,

and then you went on to say some mean things to me and I should have said no,

but I didn’t. I apologised instead.

I took you to look at the city lights with me instead.

But all the while I was watering the plants in my apartment that are dead.

 

So now that you hold her hand everytime I’m in the room

and oh so casually say out loud all your plans with her when I’m in the room

taking her to all the places I took you to dance

Honey, remember these words every time you get the chance,

I no longer care.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2019.  All rights reserved.

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The Games we Play

It’s a masquerade ball and I’m dressed in black.

It’s a power struggle, it’s a test of who can hold back,

of who can pretend to care the least,

who can cage the ego of the beast.

 

You take my hand and we move to the piano and violin.

You take my hand and we glide across all that we hide.

Your hand on the small of my back, every step a perfect sin.

Your hands are good at this, but my tongue is bit by my pride.

 

Then you go on and make a move I could well expect.

You pull me close for a split of the beat of my heart,

and push me back the next.

Your body next to me, your soul miles apart.

 

My feet will hurt when the evening is over, I know

My heart will burn in insatiable doubts, I know.

 

Yet, I dance along to the music you chose,

And I keep myself from holding you close,

I hide behind your illusion that I’m cold hearted.

You’ll never know what you do to me is a territory uncharted.

 

When this night ends, I know I will have to let go,

because there is nothing that binds us behind this show.

Yet I dance along, for it is only then I have you.

Yet I sway along, never saying out loud I’m in love with you.

Free Falling

The night sky is so close tonight,

I think I can touch it, I think I just might.

I’m floating on a cloud in the pages of a lullaby,

as calm as the vacancy in the storm’s eye.

 

As I think of your smile in the half baked moonlight,

As I think of your accidental touch,

or the way our fingers purposefully brush,

As I recall our last fight,

As I catch a hint of your perfume in my bed,

or repeat to myself all the words that you’ve said,

I’m left on crossroads in the sand,

I’m left with my bare fragile heart in my hand.

 

I’m floating without an anchor, without any chains

without safety nets,  without anyone to blame.

Because it is me who chose to leave the safety of my home,

to open barricaded doors, to stop living in monochrome.

 

So when I fall back into the dirt,

because you refused to catch me,

because it was all in my head,

I hope I have the strength to remember this magic

and to stitch myself together in the blaze of the starry night.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

 

 

In Secret, Between the Shadow and the Soul

How beautiful is a heart that can love,

Can love with nothing in return,

not even a mirror.

A heart that can bear to bare the fragile fragments

that have grown from the broken rose bushes

amid the thorns of the past.

How beautiful is the immensity of the blackness

that swallows the universe, but for the tiny lies we call stars.

The blackness that is a painting of my own hollow soul,

craving for the infamous dawn

that will bring it back home.

How beautiful is the lucid touch of love

that has you drunk in an instant

without rhyme

at the edge of the sea where reasons go to die.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

 

The Tower

I have lived with walls beyond scaling,

I’ve also slept under open skies.

I’ve drenched myself in voices of those I ignored,

I’ve scattered to ashes, been reborn and died,

hoping I would finally belong.

But I never did.

And I think I never will.

So it’s back to the highest towers for me,

hoping and believing someday I will heal

enough to venture into the world again

and not be a foe to pain.

© That Girl in the Fray, 2018.  All rights reserved.

I fly

I wish words came to me as easily as you paint the world

the flick of your brush puts me to shame

I am humbled at the beauty you capture

I frazzle at the details of your strokes

I wonder how you have the power to make a blank canvas raise my hair

 

In the distance a robin is singing and I can feel your kiss upon my bare flesh

In the distance I am flailing and falling

because you are not here with me

I might just fall into the sea

 

But here you are!

you are in this canvas I hold

your slender fingers moved over it like once they moved over my body

you captured what that picture of us together couldn’t

 

I tried to write it all down but I couldn’t

I quilled down how raw I felt when I was with you

The moon waxed but I couldn’t find the words for how I felt when we danced

and you pulled me close

I tried to imbibe the smell of your skin from when I hugged you goodbye

I failed

I fall and the sea seems sweet beneath my wings

 

But you with the flick of your wrist and the magic of your soul

Do things that I never can

 

In the distance I can hear Icarus being told

to neither fly too high not too low

But the sun is glorious and I love the air

The sun is glorious and you make me soar

 

Will the myth repeat itself?

Shall I too fly above the gods?

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

The Goblin’s Bride

They say I’m the Goblin’s Bride in faint whispers in my ears

They say I’m the Goblin’s Bride in faded words of the dying dirge

I know my destiny defines what I should do

I believed it all until the day I met you

 

My tragic fate is decided as is yours

Sealed behind the burden of iron clad doors

 

But I  refuse to believe I was born to turn you into ash

I choose to live loving you (while being teasingly rude and brash)

The first snow of the year melts in my heart when I hear your voice

Let the cherry blossoms bloom, the maple leaves fall, let the Deity know I stand by my choice

 

I choose you

Forever.

Salanghae

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

I Would Like for You to Tell Me it’s Not Too Late

I would like for you to tell me it’s not too late

for me to start living my life

In entirety until now all I’ve done is count the stars in the sky,

and write about them in a book I hide under my pillow every night.

The pages that I set fire to every morning

and swallow the ashes.

 

I don’t care if you lie to me

I do not mind if your words are as hollow and paper thin as the world around me

I could not be bothered if what you tell me is straight out of the cliches of a cheap novel you read a while ago

or a bizarre dream that you half remember unsure

I just need you to say the words out loud

I just need your harrowed hope

 

Tell me that I still have time

No matter how illusionary, tell me there’s still a chance

No matter how untrue, tell me birds fly to the moon

Tell me that all I ever wanted will come true

 

I would like for you to tell me it’s not too late

If you don’t, I will believe what the coldness of December whispers in my ears

If you don’t, maybe I will embrace the reality and wither.

Or accept that I already have.

 

© That Girl in the Fray, 2017. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

The Cosmic Summer

Caress my fragile fingers into yours

As I let gravity embrace me as I fall into you,

beyond the realm of bruise bandages and remedial cures.

You are the black hole gulping every shred of my clarity

and I cannot but help give into you,

 

and fall

and dissolve into nothingness.

 

All I ask in return for my vulnerability,

for the key you hold that unlocks the obscurest parts of me

is that you take my hand and walk across the Bow Bridge

while lovers share a kiss

in a boat that rows beneath us.

 

I will lead you the meadow and lie with you among the blades of the grass

imbibing the serenity of the sapphire sky and the thistled leaves on bows and plants,

nestled together spend a quiet minute or two listening to the songs on my ipod.

 

Or I might take you to past the conservatory to the Bethesda Fountain

and ask a stranger to take a picture of us as we wrap our bodies together.

 

Or I might walk with you to the Belvedere Castle through the Shakespeare Garden.

Under the wooden arch, tucked away in the corner you might hear someone playing the violin;

you will laugh and tell me how this reminds you of a night many moons ago in Rome

and I will try to curb the pang of jealousy raging through me at the people in your life before me you called home.

 

I will pull you across the exceptionally narrow spiral stairs of the Castle

forbidding but one person at a time to pass through,

to give you a reason to rest your hand on the small of my back in the close quarters’ hassle.

 

Once atop of the highest tower, I will hear you sigh as you take in the breath taking view of Central Park in the Summer

 

and let you take my hand as you tell me bandages won’t work on you too now.

23 Poems Before I Turn 23 Challenge: A Song from the Suds

Poem number 4

A Song from the Suds by Louisa May Alcott

Louisa May Alcott is among the queens of queens and I dote on her. She is one of the authors who have permanently been on my reading list and I do hope I can someday strike her name off that never ending Neverland of a parchment. I have grown up watching the Little Women anime and the 1949 adaptation has been a favourite. Although I must admit that I’ve quite forgotten the specifics of the tale since I last saw the movie 6 years ago or so. This challenge has reminded me of my teen love and I will surely fall back into its arms as soon as I get the opportunity to sweep away the mundane dust of life (which is pretty much the theme of my next poem).

The Poem:

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!

Along the path of a useful life
Will heart’s-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
“Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!”

My Thoughts:

I adore the simplicity of the poem. The words mean what they appear to mean, yet Louisa’s art of writing is pretty evident in the crafting of her sentences: they are short, crisp and lyrical. Her sense of humour is unparalleled and philosophical, if I might call it that. Her thoughtfulness is evident, but it is the clarity of her thoughts and words that I love the most, for clarity is something I strive to achieve in my writing. I have a muddled mind and I am a frazzled human being. And anybody who is not so inspires me and captivates me and enchants me.I am enthralled by this poem.

This is going to be one of the poems I will read to my kids someday, for it is beautiful and funny. Louisa compares a washcloth, out of all the things in the word, to life! And anybody who can pick up such a mundane and common thing and find beauty and grandeur in it is gifted according to me. She reiterates my philosophy of life: make yourself so busy that you have no time to think about the dullness and trauma surrounding life. This is something I’ve been doing ever since I took a lone trip this summer to satiate my wanderlust and realized that I’ve been fooling myself into believing that I’m not a loner. I realized during my sojourn just how beautiful life is when you do not have to depend on anybody else, but march to the beat of your own heart. Relationships are treacherous; they fool you into believing that you cannot survive on your own, when in fact being your own wolf pack is spectacular (and addictive). I’ve become so involved in myself that I barely have the time to think about unnecessary complications (but I still do drown in my misery sometimes, for I too am human).

I guess Louisa has found the answer to Alaska’s question, “How do you escape the labyrinth of suffering?” Dwell on thoughts, be angry and sad and broken, but do not stay idle. Work towards something. Work for something. Goals are one of the things that breathe sensibility into human existence. And all I do to stay sane is keep my eyes on the prize, when every inch of my body wants to stand and stare.

4 down, 19 poems and 24 days to go!

© That Girl in the Fray, 2015. All rights reserved.