Awkward: An Acquired Taste

I'm awkward and not in the charming way. I get nervous and repeat myself too much. I fumble and never know what to do with my hands. I can't look you in the eyes when I talk because I have to concentrate on what I want to say. I'm not good with conversation in person because all the words get jumbled up in my mouth. But my fingers seem to get it right. Even when I'm punch drunk I can be coherent in writing. My pen knows how to talk to my head whereas my lips can never get across what I'm thinking. 

And what I'm thinking is that maybe it's OK that I will never be able to mingle at a party with a bunch of strangers. Maybe it's better for me that I will never be proficient at small talk. Because no, I don't want to know your major. I want to know your favorite sin. No, I don't want to know how your classes or your job is. I want to know how your soul is managing. 

I may not be the most... Comfortable person to be around. But I sure as hell am entertaining.  Awkward is an acquired taste. With time, I'm sure I can show you how to enjoy it. 

Naked is OK

            We don’t like to see other people exposed. It’s offensive to be nude. Physically or emotionally. When they ask, “how are you” they don’t want to hear the gritty details. They want to hear how well you are or that you’re doing just fine. The shorter the answer the better. Because candor throws them off. The unfiltered self makes people uncomfortable. Sadness is a sin. So we clothe our nudity with facades made up of generic happiness.

            But I want to see you strip down to your skivvies and be proud of your clumsy truth. And I want to undress myself and show you my brazen awkwardness. Small talk happens too much and life stories are told too little. Cut the bullshit. Tell me who you are. We guard ourselves to the point where we become insecure about insecurities.

            I used to think I had to fit this mold of political correctness. I used to refrain my personality so everyone else could be comfortable. I spent too much of my time being mindful and putting my needs behind others. I molded myself into a lump of formalities trained to reply with neutrality. My thoughts, my feelings, my own mind became alien to me. I lost myself because, until now, I never lived for myself.

            Living for oneself is not selfish. It’s needed. To be unapologetically exposed at all times should not be taboo. It should not be brave to be unashamed of your insecurities or to wear your heart on your sleeve.  

Naked is OK.

[percocet]

                                I feel numb

[and not the good kind of numb.

it's the kind of numb that suppresses everything.

the good, the bad, the joy]

I used to think that was OK,

but now

                                I feel dead

[and not the kind of dead where you’re remembered.

it’s the type of dead

where you disappear]

I was fine with that

until I realized

                                I would yell

but I can’t.

[my voice ran away.

and it’s not the kind of runaway

where it might come back.

but it’s the kind that left

with the intent to die]

I didn’t miss it much

thinking that

                                I would laugh

except I forgot how.

[and not in the way

that I can’t remember.

but in the way that I can’t recall

what it was like]

You see, I didn’t expect

that being numb meant that

                                I would cry.

but that couldn’t f*cking feel

enough [to know

what the hell

emotions are]

                               

                 [maybe it’s the percocet]

his body

His body 
is nothing but
a bag of flesh and bones 
stitched together 
by skin.

But there is nothing 
more profound.

His hands might 
just be fingers 
attached to palms 
But those fingers 
create words that 
can shake souls 
and change minds. 
And when those palms 
press against mine, 
they send shocks 
of electricity through 
my body.

His lips might 
just be veils of skin 
stretched over teeth. 
But those petals of flesh 
are soft like velvet rain 
and whisper smooth 
stories of the crass beauties 
and righteous wrongs.

The way he moves his limbs 
is like 
the way wind 
moves water. 
When his arms close around me 
and press me to his ribcage 
I can hear 
the soft drumbeat 
that forms 
the rhythm to 
my life.

His hands quiver 
my humanity 
and rupture my body.

His lips impress 
the memories 
of a million lives.

And his chest beats 
the words of 
a thousand love songs.

And the way 
he holds me, 
it’s not like he’s 
holding a bag of bones.

It’s like he’s holding 
the intangible part 
of my person. 
It is spiritual 
and sacrilegious.

His body is the vessel 
for the small imperial 
life that I can no longer  separate myself from. 
It is where the indulgent fiction 
and the ultimate reality 
collide together and 
form the line between 
the sacred 
and 
the profane.

His body is the land 
in which the true world hides. 
And is the place where 
fairy tales come to die.

But still, 
it's just 
bag of bones.

Motel Sheets

Folds and folds 

of white linen

strewn about 

two bodies.

Motel sheets 

that litter the carpet 

and burn my memory.

A sea of white

in which I lost myself.
Salt tears that fell down

my cheeks and stained

themselves into the cloth.

"This is wrong.

Why is this wrong?”

A man who was 

just a boy.

A girl who had 

to grow up fast.

We killed ourselves

in between two thin blankets 

and with words we didn’t mean.