I'm Wasting Time Writing This, Also

I'm wasting time writing this, also

In early July, as the afternoon heat seeps into my skin, I find myself in the backyard, staring at an unfinished garden. I still remember the purpose of starting it: to turn my stress into something better. To distract myself. To escape. Yet, here I am, leaning against the door, doing nothing and I can’t help but feel a bit bad about it.

“It’s a shame,” I mutter quietly to myself, leaning wearily against the door. My skin clings uncomfortably to my shirt, and a feeble fan struggles to disperse the sticky film of sweat on my forehead.

I glance at the garden, half-hearted and abandoned, hoping for it to grow on its own, almost begging at this point. But each passing day, I feel the plants that could've bloomed growing inside me, as if another year is weaving through my veins. I waste endless hours, I realize that now as I’m scrolling through my notes. I was supposed to write down a grocery list for my mom, what went from “get 2 pounds of potatoes” turned into the familiar refrain of “finally getting my life together,” scribbled fervently at 14, then again at 15. It’s almost funny, in a way. 

A whisper of “It’s a shame” as I flip through the pages. And here I am again, typing away at my phone, drafting yet another plan to reignite my life at 17 for the umpteenth time. 

I waste seconds, too. Never learned how important they are. I stand by the coffee machine, hypnotized by each slow drip into the pot, drawn like a moth to the light. I know there's better things to do, something—anything—else. But still, I wait, until the last grind is used up. The aftertaste on my tongue isn't just bitter; it's saturated with shame. It's a sudden ache to the stomach, I realize too late: I don't even enjoy coffee. Now it leaves me wide-eyed at night, thinking too much about the time I waste. I stay up until it’s morning, waking at 3 pm like it’s perfectly fine, then fritter away the day, I feel like it’s too late to do anything worthwhile.

Tears blur my vision, and sometimes it feels like I can't stop until my whole body trembles with the weight of it all. I used to despise the softness of my skin, there were times I tried to squeeze into the smallest version of myself. But without it, what would I hold onto? What would anchor me in this world?

Crying feels like a privilege for the young, but here I am, feeling like a child with tears streaming down my face. In the blink of an eye, so much time slips through the fingers I sob into my hands with, and still, the shaking persists. 

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Grieving Forecast: Warning at Noon, A Remote Control Experience

I spend too much time on my couch, it’s made for two but inhabited by one, my leg draped over the armrest, claiming that little space. There’s a remote control in hand, I flip through channels, cheek resting against the plastic surface.

At noon, the news anchor’s voice fills the room, warning of looming emotions at the doorstep that will swoop you off your feet, a level 4 scare. “Stay wary,” they caution, urging viewers to heed the call.

But, I skip past it and play commercials, it just becomes noise, and then I reach for my phone instead. I check the weather app, even though I already know it’s bad outside. But really, I’m just hoping to catch a glimpse of when the clouds in my head will clear up, of when this pain will ease, when the hurt will dissipate and vanish into thin air. Before I can see, a notification pings on my phone from the news app that distracts me for a moment, it reads along the lines:

“Woman Doesn’t Know What to Say for the Funeral Even Though Nobody has Died Yet, More Details at Seven.”

Except, I’m aware it’s inevitable, that death is relentless, an unstoppable force. It’s the unknown timing that scares me, that creeping preemptive grief that I’ll eventually deal with. It’s a dilemma I fight with. Then, out of nowhere, the crack of thunder startles me from behind, and I still jump, even though I anticipated it.

“Woman Wants to Stop Time to Live in That Perfect Moment Forever, Discovers Healing in Memory and Remembrance, Headline at Eight.”

With a deep breath, I find the courage and do the first brave thing in a long time: grabbing an umbrella as a precaution. It’s a small gesture, but a big step towards a new start. Stepping outside, I find unexpected sun shining onto me that wasn’t forecasted, but it’s not unwelcome. After so long of being inside, I accept it with open arms. I can breathe. I can feel grass grow beneath my feet.

They found your heart too big for the parcel’s size and sent it back.

The sun still sets for both of us on different ends. I would peak through from under my covers and wonder why the light was on so late when we’re supposed to be asleep. I bite my tongue as I see you vacuum seal your heart to give.

Like an angel and devil perched on my shoulders. I hold back my words, the silence mumbles like an angel, while the unsettling calm whispers like a devil, both urging me to tread cautiously, it feels a bit sacrilegious to ruin this moment for you.

I inhale deeply, though peace eludes me. Accepting the hate you think you deserve, swallowing it like a bitter pill they said would help, but it only hurts your stomach. They don’t know they caused the marbles in your brain, circling endlessly. You’ll find peace when you leave this past behind but I also know your brain would short circuit if it wasn’t thinking about something to keep you busy.

But as you get up to leave without looking back at the mess, I gather the anger you’ve left behind on the table, cradling it in my hands just as I do with the love you hold me to. Those feelings you have, seeming less weighty to you than to others. Not through the same eyes but with unseen hands, they reach down to pull the shadows beneath your eyes, harshly tearing with all the efforts you make.

But I see it all, just as I see you. Every morning, as the setting sun pours through the windows, bathing it’s forgiving light upon you when you finally gather the courage to crawl back into bed.

First language in love, second but more fluent in anger: on planet Venus

Today, I’ve settled into anger’s company. I gesture it to sit across from me at breakfast. I don’t shout it. But I can tell you sense it in my tight fists and clenched jaw. And you? Your silence reverberates down the hall. I can tell you’re angry with every move you do, in the way you sidestep in the doorway and in the glare you give me that you don’t think I notice.

Like two balls of flames and rage thrown into a ring, constantly colliding despite our efforts to avoid each other. And when we do crash, it’s a cataclysmic explosion worse than either of us could imagine.

That moment when two burning stars finally crash, but it’s expected, scientists saw it coming after years of study. They gave us a decade, said we’ll be okay for a while, but expected our implosion after all the tension. It’s been a long time coming but it hurts more when it finally happens.

Your rage burns and leaves marks onto my skin, next to the ones where you used to love me, and they look the same and I can’t distinguish them. But you have the same marks as me so what are we now? We gained nothing from this, no new star or planet born from this, so what now?

We’re just two crashed cars, obviously on flames, waiting for someone to come to our rescue. But is that all we are? Are we just wreckage waiting for rescue? The car may be salvageable, but what about us? Will we come out from this unscathed? Will we be okay? Will you still love me, even if you couldn’t do this anymore?

I want to get married just to get divorced because yeah the feeling of yearning for someone you’ve been crushing on is so fun but it feels kind of childish. you start dating and then you get married when you’re old enough and I feel like somewhere around that long period of time the yearning feels forgotten because yearning is essentially associated with love. so sometimes that love slips through the cracks of your fingers and in between coming home late and ignoring calls and petty fights and giving half assed responses just to receive a “are you going to actually talk with with more than one word or am I going to be having a monologue all night?” and going upstairs to see them still awake but ignoring you. you get used to it. you get so used to it in fact that you don’t expect it to end.

next thing you know is that you’re at the beach house (the one you have dreamed about having together when you were yearning for your lover), there’s a divorce paper with your lover’s signature on the marble kitchen table (the one you both took time picking out, mindlessly walking through an ikea hand-in-hand but your stomach hurts and you can’t tell if it’s because of the overwhelming PDA and love that’s rushing through your veins or the ice coffee you’ve been sipping on with your free hand) and suddenly you’re getting a call from your lawyer while you’re trying to process your emotions, you can’t really figure out what the most appropriate response is because even though you did know you would get divorced you didn’t properly prepare for it.

now you’re standing in the kitchen, the phone call ended and you’re thinking about what went wrong, when you already know. so you sign the papers all while you tell yourself “it’s for the best.” but is it really? did you dream this part too when you were 16 years old thinking about the future with the love of your life? and the answer is no, you didn’t. now you’re trying to learn how to live without them because it’s think that it’s better this way.

but it’s not better, because how could it be better? when they move into their parent’s house until they get themselves together but you still see them sometimes across the grocery store and you’re thinking about how nobody else in the grocery store knows that you used to wake up next to them for more than 10 years. that you still catch myself making coffee for two (one is exactly the way they liked it). that you still get up in the middle of night to a cup full of water because they used to get thirsty in their sleep. that you know every little thing about them and still see them in everything and now it’s gone and then you realize you’re yearning again and you need them more than you ever have and it’s a different kind of want.