you saw my life as a video game.
it didn't matter how many times you killed me,
for my lives were unlimited.
it didn't matter how many times you hurt me,
for any potion or elixir could revive me.
it didn't matter you that you neglected me when i needed to be saved,
some other player would get to it.
at least that's what you thought.
i was only there to pass the time.
you wanted to play me until you decided you were done with me,
until something more interesting came along.
until you scratched me up enough.
you wanted to see me rot on some abandoned shelf
just so you could sell me to gamestop for 2 dollars years later.
but i never existed for your entertainment.
and when you feel nostalgic,
put down the controller.
put down the controller.
because i won't be on your lonely shelf,
ready to be played again.
4 years have passed since I dreamed of this exact day -
waking up to white sheets, roses and you.
I gave up everything in my life so I could fall asleep to the stars,
but I never got to see how bright they could shine.
Maybe I'd rather wake up to skylines instead of fairies.
Maybe I'd rather swim by myself instead of swimming with mermaids.
Maybe I'd rather do nothing at all.
Nothing at all sounds quite nice right now.
The cold sweat of guilt drowns me as gentrification follows me -
I cannot breathe, I cannot smell the roses.
You tell me I rush my way through life,
I tell you I do not have a choice.
You tell me I walk too fast,
I tell you you walk too slow.
We were walking in North Hollywood and all I seemed to care about was what I wanted.
Was I being selfish? That word seemed to follow me my entire life.
Every block someone wanted my attention but I just kept walking.
They wanted my money, they wanted my time for a survey, they wanted me to check out their mixtape.
Every "excuse me" made me walk faster, as I continued to be desensitized to all the madness around me. I thought that was normal - of course, that was all I've known for the past two years.
Then, as one man was forcing his mixtape in my face as I ignored him, he said to me, "Oh, we have a New York girl."
I brushed off the comment. In a sense he was right. New York was the place I felt most comfortable and I've lived with a New York state of mind my entire life. Did this mean I was passive? Did he see that I was rushing my way through life too? Am I a self-centered, dead-inside, dehumanizing, career-driven New-York type girl now?
I am delusional and comfortable.
I may be a pedestrian on the road but I am not a pedestrian in life.
So go ahead, run me over. Run me over until I cannot feel it anymore.
I will haunt you and love you all the same.
|I really liked this art by Kayleigh Causton.|
i don't normally turn people into poetry mid-conversation.
but there was something about the way you said my name -
like a west coaster gone east,
jokingly dropping your voice down an octave
so you could capture the essence you imagined my past to be.
you showed me that the question shouldn't be what's in a name
but how you wear the name.
it doesn't matter that my name is maria.
because it could've easily been mary or mariah or maritza or marie or mariella or mariam.
i would still carry the sweetness they see and the spice you see.
i would still wear the accidental side-pony you've come to appreciate.
and you would still have a waterfall of curls spilling out the front of your hat.
go ahead, say my name again in every accent & dialect - tell me if anything changes.
we were talking like iris murdoch & john bayley
and i told you how i felt objectified in both work & play...
just a body that corporations can make money off of.
just a body that exists solely for the pleasure of mindless men.
i felt like a catherine earnshaw or rose dewitt bukater -
a victorian woman owned by anyone and anything with money.
but you -
powered on nothing but adderall & jasmine tea,
were the only one who understood.
you saw me as a boss.
for a moment,
i was more than just a body.
you were a personified self-help book,
a kendrick song put to life.
i didn't have to listen to you -
you were listening to me.
you told me you wanted me to write about you.
nervously, i laughed, "one day. one day."
little did you know
your body would become a statue built from my words,
as i wait at the bus stop a few blocks away.
with falsified plans and dusty numbers lost among contact lists,
you decided to let me go.
why pretend we'll keep in touch?
you left it up to chance, & i may never see you again,
& i don't think i want to.
i appreciate you for your existence, your words, and your time.
i live in a shell,
so i can't blame people when they don't want to crack me.
but people like you are the reason i left the nest for.
you said my name one last time.
i smiled back at you, cinematic & uninspired.
"I'll see you when I see you."