abbywants2write

[abbywants2write]

In the moment before the end, I saw an Angel. I’m not sure what happened next, just that it hurt- and then it didn’t.

[abbywants2write]

[abbywants2write]

My lips move wordlessly

Or seemingly it is so

Maybe I am screaming

But deaf ears don’t know

My heart beats righteously

A rhythm so full of love

For all the things in life

I am unworthy of

A sense of urgency

Hesitation to think

Missing feeling alive

Flooding the kitchen sink

Tears fall like acid rain

Drowning the ants below

But I do hope you’re okay

You always hated being alone

[abbywants2write]

(Another one I found from my old Microsoft Word writings in high school)

I see with my own two eyes the death of a love that is still fresh and new. Still unborn, still blossoming, and it is gone. As brief as a blink, as fleeting as an echo, it is gone.

You, how can you stand to stay so close to me who knows not the way out of this mess? Who is tainted and ruined? Who is not whole?

Do not cling to me for help or guidance for I am lost too. you ignore my pleas and beg for my solution. The answer. My answer is sleep, dream until you can’t anymore. My own dreams have begun to fade, what will I do when they are gone?

I try to ignore the continual marching of time, in rhythm to the beating of my heart, and ache for release from this.

Maybe, just maybe, my answer is wrong. Absolutely you say, but you don’t offer an alternative way, a change, development.

You cling to me and wait for an answer better than what I’ve given.

I keep trying and closing my eyes to the horror in my head. I pretend not to see the monster who cursed me, beads of sweat gathered on my face mixing with tears. I see him in the strangers I allow in my bed. A revolving door of lovers, all wearing his face. I keep trying, keep hoping the memory will fade.

Its my fears that keep me asleep I believe. I'm afraid of him, of this reality, i'm afraid of his wandering hands and his easy laugh, i'm afraid of the way he made me sit in his lap, i'm afraid of others knowing, I’m afraid of myself.

How many others did he hurt in this way, how much youth has he stolen, how did this come to happen?

So I cope and retaliate by sleeping in and and sleeping around, making my way around town in the wee hours of the morning. My hair is a mess and my eyes are wet with tears- how did I get here? I have the roadmap in my head and yet I still deny knowing.

[abbywants2write]

Found some of my old writing this morning, here’s one from a particularly difficult time in my life.

My mood is similar in many aspects to the tide. Rising and falling, each new phase bringing with it thoughts from the deep of my mind, drift wood and broken shell ponderings. I am the ocean, troublesome yet calm, chaotic yet peaceful, frenzied yet tranquil. My emotions collide and contradict, crashing into one another as though they were the tumultuous waves of a severe sea storm. The results of their destruction are catastrophic, altering the coastlines of my personality, gradually eroding away my sense of self. I am disoriented and feel as though I am drowning in the violent waves, tossed helplessly by the undercurrents within my mind, held under by the crushing weight of my anxieties. I choke on salty water and wonder if I can drown within myself.

[abbywants2write]

Beep. beep. Work is extraordinarily grating today. The woman across the counter taps her hot pink nails rapidly against the dull orange vinyl. I sigh, waiting for the outdated register to load her total, already knowing it will be $12.35 including tax. I’m not a math whiz, but I’ve been behind this aged orange counter at this dilapidated gas station for five years. A pack of Marlboro 27 Shorts, a lighter- of the smaller cheaper assortment- and some menthol gum was a specific combination I saw frequently purchased, and at some point memorized the total in exchange for.

The archaic computer finally loads her total; $12.35. Ignoring her annoyed, impatient, huff, I force my face into a cheery expression and echo the number. I ignore the itching under my skin as the clock ticks closer to 5:30. The woman swipes her card twice, the first time receiving an error message of some kind. A quick glance to the clock on the yellowed wall on my right reveals that it is 5:28 PM. I continue averting my eyes from the woman as she punches her PIN, my agitation and her own both weighing heavily in the air. Finally, the dusty monitor gives an out of tune “cha-ching” sound, signaling the woman is free to leave with her goods. Her back is turned before the receipt begins to print, but I don’t mind because it is now 5:29.

The walk to my car, a silver 2006 Honda Civic who has seen better days, is frantic and hurried. My steps are clipped, and I do everything but sprint to the vehicle, parked in the third spot from the door, where I have parked it daily for the last five years. I usually punch out my time card at 5:30PM, but today I was two minutes late. Anxiety makes my throat constrict as I contemplate the two lost minutes. I practically throw myself into the driver’s seat, and the car rocks from the impact. Yanking my car door shut, I quickly thrust in my key and start the engine. It rumbles to life beneath me as I briefly check my surroundings before backing out.

I do five miles per hour over the speed limit exactly, the itching under my skin growing more unbearable with every moment that passes. I never play music on my radio, as it usually only grates on my nerves, but especially not at this time of day. It is 5:34 PM when I take a left at the stop sign on the road that the gas station is on. My anticipation builds, restlessness making me antsy at the red light a few miles later. Traffic seems reasonable today, and I am relieved that there will be no obstacles besides time.

It is 5:59 PM when I turn left onto Frank street. I smile to myself in silence. I am one minute early. The sun shines with an orange tint as it begins to descend, not due to disappear for another hour. I swallow, hands clammy and trembling as I grip the steering wheel. The red light at the interaction of Frank street and Reedhall Avenue approaches. The light that I am drawn to like a moth in the darkness. I watch in satisfaction as it turns yellow, the blue Toyota in front of me rumbling to a stop. It’s perfect.

I am second in line at the light on Frank street. The cars lined up in the left turning lane of Reedhall Avenue begin to move forward. I swallow, my excitement at its peak. The first car turning left onto Frank Street is a yellow Volkswagen beetle. As expected, the orange light of the sinking sun beams directly into the vehicle, allowing a clear view of its inhabitants for about three seconds. I sigh into the silence of my own vehicle in contentment, the anxiety of being late and missing this moment long gone.

It’s a woman in the vehicle, looking to be in her mid twenties or early thirties. Her lipstick coated lips are turned down in concentration. She’s by herself, and appears to be lost in thought, probably driving on autopilot. I notice that her hair is tied back, a messy strand reflecting the sunlight. And then she is gone. The next car quickly replaces her, and I eagerly continue to observe.

Every day during the months of August through April at approximately 6:00 PM, the sunlight and angle of traffic at the intersection of Frank street and Reedhall avenue allows the first three vehicles at the red light on Frank street to see directly into the oncoming vehicles from Reedhall avenue as they pass. I noticed this five years ago on my way home from work, just after moving to the area in late August.

At first, I only appreciated it as I passed through, though after some time I noticed the intersection was on my mind more often than not. There was something about seeing someone when they believed themselves to be unseen that felt vulnerable, personal.

Perceiving the drivers turning left onto Frank Street turned into inventing stories and context for the very brief glimpses I’d seen. After the first year, I began to recognize a few cars here and there, and they became my favorites. I knew they likely never noticed me, and have never given me a second glance, but I felt as if I knew them intimately.

Thoughts of the intersection plagued me night and day. I gradually began to obsess over the light, and being there at just the right time to maximize the experience. I started taking the loop instead of heading home, coming back to the intersection until the setting sun no longer allowed such clear visuals. I began planning my schedule around this hour block of time, five days a week.

I don’t go to the intersection on weekends, as it feels like an over-indulgence. As if I could make the experience less special, less exciting.

A greasy looking middle-aged man in a uniform for a local fast food chain rumbles behind the woman in the Volkswagen. His Buik sputters and groans through the turn, and the man looks as though he may have been born scowling. A cigarette hangs lazily from his lip, and I see the cherry brighten as he inhales, and then he is gone. He’s one I’ve seen regularly, and I’m sure he’s just gotten off work like myself. I imagine his name is Ralph or Henry or something of the sort. Ralph or Henry seems like he could be an uncle or something, I judged a long time ago that he is probably unmarried.

The next vehicle is a Honda, like my own, and the driver is a young man. His face is pockmarked and red, and beside him appears to be some kind of dog. The dog is medium sized with a patchy white and brown coat, sitting politely in the seat and watching the road as it passes. I’ve not seen the kid before and I decide he’s likely just gotten licensed. I wonder where he’s taking the dog, and then he’s gone. I invent a girlfriend for the boy, deciding he’s going to meet her with the dog so they can go to the park and toss a frisbee.

The light changes, and traffic on Reedhall avenue grinds to a halt. The light on Frank Street turns green, and I move forward, turning left under the overpass further down the road to loop back to the intersection. It is 6:05. I smile once more in the silence, contentedness easing the tension that perpetually strains my neck and furrows my brows. I have another 55 minutes to enjoy this time.

I am doing my best to relish it, as April quickly approaches. When the seasons change, and the angle of the sunlight is different, this phenomenon no longer occurs. I swallow, dreading the long months where I cannot connect to the oncoming drivers from Reedhall Avenue. Quickly, I swallow my despair, determined not to taint my current joy, resolving that I will find a solution when the time comes. Until then, I continue driving in circles, making one sided connections.

[abbywants2write]

SUNSET

The time when day ends

Is that of golden sunlit passion

The sun caresses us in gentle action

Casting to us a dreamlike glow

precursor of the night to follow

And kisses us in a tender way

The same she does every day

With loving and deliberate lips

The stars follow as she dips

Snuggled drowsy in horizon’s cover

She calls goodnight as stars hover

Her farewell is void of sorrow

After all, she’ll see us tomorrow.

[abbywants2write]

I will never cease

My tenderness

If you promise

To kiss me so softly

Ritualistically

With reverence in your touch

And devotion in your gaze

I will exclaim my love

From the rooftops

And your response

Is the only thing

I will quiet for

[abbywants2write]

Garden Variety Snakes

Coiling warily

As the sheets are bathed

in the morning’s glow

Angel wings crest the horizon

Spilling grace and divinity

Inspiration

Carelessly on my

Linoleum floors

[abbywants2write]

Decay in my veins

Annually

My viscera is shed-

And from it

Grows the seed I’ve sewn

Leaves of psyche

Petals of ego

How many lives

Have I experienced

Within this one

Every day it seems

I’m born again

[abbywants2write]

Lovers and Sinners

Writhe the Same

Under and Upon Flesh

Flame Tickles and Licks

Ember and Ash

Indulgence, Compulsion

To touch! To taste! To possess!

When Eve proclaimed

with juice on her chin

That the Apple was

the sweetest creation

to be tasted

My only thought

Was of you