jhaiwrites

[jhaiwrites]

Mayfly

Stupid nasty shitty, Dumb stupid awful. Why can't you load faster?

Terrible shitty useless, Stupid stupid stupid. What elevator goes this slow?

Dumb horrible stupid idiotic, Shitty awful vile. Why can't I cry anymore?

Lousy stupid moronic, Horrid ass shitty stupid dumb. Why won't you make me happy?

Awful nasty atrocious, Pathetic lousy shitty bad. Is this all I have?

—IX

[jhaiwrites]

I wish romance was a real mechanic.

Not just in the lore.

What an incredible concept.

—IX

[jhaiwrites]

My heart is not for sale.

My time is, though. In dollars per hour.

My hands are too. In moved furniture and free pizza.

My eyes, My voice, My smile, My teeth. All for the low, low price of a life.

But my heart? That one's for me. Just me.

And maybe you too.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

Vienna

I met her on Saturday, under the trees at the Turn 10 hairpin. General admission was packed, and we were packed in like sardines. She asked for some sunscreen, and I gave her my heart instead.

The easiest part to describe is her beauty. Eyes of gold speckled green. A smile that could charm even the crankiest old man. An accent from far away. Playful in a way that you cant help but feel more relaxed by. Freckles that shimmered in the sun, that danced when she laughed.

But then you saw her richness. Wit deeper than an ocean. A sense of humor — blunt but smart. Deadpan but wry. The inner world she showed in the words she used and the stories she told, spoke only of further depths within her. Her little habits — the way she blew raspberries at the bees as they got close to her, the way the rhythm she’d tap on her knee gained tempo when she got excited — all were worn on her sleeve. Unapologetically. A woman saying wordlessly, “I’m here. All of me.”

Then her strength. A penchant for asking for ridiculous things and still getting them. And more. Bravery that shouldn’t be able to fit in a 5’0” frame. She pulled herself across the Atlantic, living off spit and smiles. Fought for General Admission seats with the rest of us poors like a heavyweight boxer. And somehow, she ended up being so much more. Tattoos of the soul of her mother. Of her brother. Another on her back that says “slow down, you’re doing fine.” From her favourite song. Intrusive thoughts of mostly harmless kleptomania. Mostly. Senses that picked out details you didn’t notice were there. A simmering intelligence hidden just behind those crystal eyes, knowing that she had you fooled with her bubblegum demeanour. A mind looking forward. On the horizon. Pushing herself. Sometimes harder than she should. Only gave shrugs and an “I’ll figure it out” when asked about plans. And I believed her.

Rarely, there were vulnerable moments. How she grew small and stiff in the full-to-bursting subway train as we tried to leave Circuit Gilles Villeneuve with the rest of the 100000 on the island at once. How she’d dart her eyes around nervously at the press of bodies — most a full foot taller than her — and mumble something about hating crowds. Never before have I been more proud of pressing into 3 sweaty strangers with my back — because I managed to give her a few more centimeters to breathe. She could burn too. She could be cruel — not often and not intensely — but she could nonetheless pull out her smarts and charm as claws. Her warm wit could become icy cunning. But mostly, she *shone*. A star that pushed outward — naturally, reflexively. My jaw dropped at how easily she stepped and leaped and pushed — how easily she *lived.* It scared me. Actions that would have had me dry heaving in a bucket, she pulled off as easily as she breathed. She sniffed every flower. Took pictures with strangers with weird hair. Snuck signage from the race into her backpack as a souvenir, batting eyelashes at the marshals, seeing that they ripped my scavenged sign out of my hands as I tried to bumble past with one. Threw her phone through a chain link fence so a worker could get pictures of her favourite team’s car for her. But she’s not mine. Not interested. Not even remotely. She might not even be interested in men. She certainly seemed more into Shannon, anyway. She didn’t get my jokes. Token laughs. Token responses. I could see her eyes glaze over as she nodded politely to me explaining my interests. She stiffened at my compliments, gave me weak smiles at my attempts to charm. I got the sense that I glanced at her more often than she was comfortable with. I began to take a lot more interest in the grass near my shoes after that. I asked if I could walk her home. I think I took the no graciously. I didn’t sob, or beg, or ask to run away together, or do any of the other million things my mind was screaming me to try. I wished her well, wished her luck on the interview she had the next day. She gave me a tiny wave and half a glance before disappearing into the crowd. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again. . . . Slow down, you crazy child. You’re so ambitious for a juvenile. But then if you’re so smart, Then why are you still so afraid? Where’s the fire? What’s the hurry about? You better cool it off before you burn it out. You got so much to do, And only so many hours in a day. But you know that When the truth is told, That you can get what you want Or you can just get old. You’re gonna kick off, Before you even get halfway through. When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

Oh, come on.

You know what I mean.

Yes, you do.

Are you going to make me show you again?

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

Whoever said, "Your body is a temple", Grew up where steeples shone.

Come to my holy places. See what God left me. Left us.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

$8.80 short

Hi sir, what can I get for you?

By my age, they’d had my brother. A house. A second hand firebird for dad, A new station wagon for mom. I have three roommates. And a cat.

Yes ma’am, we have oat, almond or soy.

Student loans. Rent. Groceries. Medication. Is payday this Friday or next? It’s gonna be tight.

Sir, please calm down.

3.8 GPA, Dean’s list. Three years straight. They were so proud, Watching me in my grad caps. BSc. MSc. I wonder what they think now.

I’m sorry ma’am, it’s store policy.

Maybe I should get a PhD. Maybe I should move back home. Maybe I should run away. Maybe I should throw a few pipe bombs. I don’t look at my razors anymore.

Yes sir. I’m sorry sir.

I need to scream. I need to run. Blood in my ears. Animal. Raw, red, and searing. I have to escape. I need to go. I need to go. I need…

Hi sir, what can I get for you today?

—IX

——————————

Context: $8.80 is the difference between the Ontario minimum hourly wage and the living hourly wage in the Greater Toronto Area.

[jhaiwrites]

With shaking hands, She pushes down.

Needle. in her skin.

She gasps.

—IX

[jhaiwrites]

To whom it may concern,

I tried making pancakes this morning. Emphasis on tried. In my defence, the pan was staring daggers at me. I don't trust shifty cookware.

I walked to work. Crazy, right? It didn't take half as long as I'd thought it would. And I got to see the neighbourhood cardinal gather some twigs.

They saw through it though, The dazzling smile. Turns out whitening only goes so far.

But my tone was warm. My ears were listening. Really listening this time! I swear!

And Ms. Jones seemed to notice something. "You’ve got a different sparkle today, sweetie", she said. Dan just asked if I got laid. I laughed, and it only felt a little contrived.

You see? I'm better. Or at least I'm trying to get better. Trying really, really hard.

Will you come home now?

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

On-boarding.

He said once my system adjusted, I should double my dose.

Standard practice, he assured me. Taking it slow, in fact.

But I don't know.

18mg sounds civilized. Respectable. It has a savings account. Wears dress shirts. You'd invite 18mg to your cookout. Let it meet your mom.

36mg feels heavier. Closer Breath on the neck. Hot. Humid. Ropey muscle. Hard eyes. If I saw 36mg at the station, I'd consider skipping a train. I probably wouldn't, But I'd consider it.

But my system's adjusted. And I should double my dose.

Standard practice, right? Taking it slow.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

Here is where I hurt. I'm not asking you to fix it. Just, Please don't walk away.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

You've got it all wrong.

First base is eye contact. That shit's already intimate as hell. You're either a creep or Prince Charming. Nothing in between.

Second base is pooping in their toilet. When someone lets you use their plumbing, For something beyond fluids? That's commitment.

Third base? Well. Third base is,

The electric feel of finger-to-finger. A bad day met by warm arms. Growing old together. Trying not to keep secrets from each other.

Steady hands on the shoulders. A look that speaks of a hundred meanings. A tired smile in the back of the taxi. The long hug after a flight.

Being weak. Being strong. Tough conversations. Infinite patience.

Choosing to grow, when times are easy. Choosing to stay, when times are hard. With shaking hands, holding your mess, And seeing it loved.

Fourth base? Merging Finances. "You speculated on REITs in college? You naughty girl!"

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

I kept a list.

You’re overreacting And you thought I’d like this why This is for your own good Ugh again? You’re being too emotional God you’re so annoying If you loved me you would If you loved me you wouldn’t Stop crying You made me do that Get over it No wonder you think that You’re so sensitive You don’t care about me You always You never Don’t use that tone with me I’m just being brutally honest You’re delusional Calm down Can’t you take a joke? This is me being nice You’re just like your dad I told you so You’re lucky I put up with your bullshit I don’t care You deserved it —J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

Hamilton, Ontario

Smoke rises from a stack, One in ten. One in twenty.

Hungry, starved. Old, wise. Bruised, bloody.

Tired faces. Crooked smiles.

Not dead. Not yet.

—IX

[jhaiwrites]

crime scene

You came back. They always do. To bask in their handiwork. The chalk outline, In the shape of my soul. My last shreds in evidence bags. You moron. They only use the chalk When the victim survived.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

If I were rain, I'd patter against your windows. If I were snow, I'd bury you six feet deep.

—J. Hai

[jhaiwrites]

To the love of my life.

Hey, I hope you don’t think this is weird. I’ve never met you before. Not even someone close to who you are. I may have caught a hint of your laugh in the voice of another, or glimpsed the kindness of your heart in the smiles of passing strangers. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that our paths have yet to cross.

I admit, I'm scared. I'm lonely. I don't even know if you're real, let alone if I'll ever meet you. The world is vast, and I often feel like an outsider. A purple frog in a species of green ones.

I've tried. My God, I've tried. I've spent years looking, calling. A mourning dove's call, out to the mist. Out to the horizon. But all I received was the whistling of the wind as the cries of "is anyone out there?" echo back to me from the distance. But I want you to know, that I'm preparing. Slowly, excruciatingly, picking up the pieces of myself and figuring out how to fit them together in a way that lets me love. A love that I can give to myself, and to you, yet unknown. I'm squeezing my eyes shut, diving in head first, in the hope against all hopes that on the other side I'll fall into your arms.

Why? Because I want to make coffee for you. I want to run my fingers through your hair. I want to burn pancakes with you. I want to have healthy, difficult conversations that don't drive us apart, but make us stronger. I want to learn everything about you. Drink you in, gulp by gulp until I'm bursting, overwhelmed by all you are. I want to have tired nights with you, nights where we can do nothing but sit in silence, knowing the love transcends exhaustion. I want to cry in your arms. I want to show you my poems. I want to hear you ramble on and on about something that you love. I want to laugh until I spit milk out of my nose. I want to have pillow fights. I want to look at you every morning in the early light, hair messy and eyes half-lidded, and be just as astounded every time at how beautiful you are. I want to be small, shivering, aching and broken, and to still see you pointing at me, saying "That one. That one's mine." I want to talk about the future. I want to ask if you want kids. I want to dream with you. Explore with you. Discover with you. Fail, but fail together. I want the bad days to be made a little lighter with your hand on my back. I want to be a team. I want you to be my favourite person. I want to feel the nervousness at meeting your dad, hoping he'll think I'm worthy of his baby girl. I want to see how you know me deeper than I could ever have known myself. I want to be good to you. I want to be honest to you. I want to try not to keep secrets from you. I want to tell you about my mental health struggles. I want to watch as you greet my flaws, my shame, my darkest parts with warmth and open arms. I want to say, "I've never felt this way before", and mean it.

And I'm not sure if I'll ever get to do any of this with you. I'm not sure I'll ever get to do anything with you at all. You're a myth right now. A tale, as glorious as you are apocryphal. A bedtime story I tell myself when the nights grow cold in the hope that it one day could be true.

But until the end, until the sky burns out and my bones turn to chalk, I'll prepare. I'll do the hard work. The quiet work. I'll settle into the shape of me that I always needed to be. And I'll wait. I'll wait and I'll work. As long as you need me to.

You know where to find me.

Love, J. Hai