poetinside

[poetinside]

extrovert

I didn’t go and they said I was missed. Though sometimes I think they prefer my absence but would never admit it, of course, because they love me. I am loved but I think they all breathe a little easier, when I am not around. Swallowing great gulps of air that I am not there to steal with my own gasping, unquenchable mouth. And it makes less sense but I appreciate my own absence too, the stillness of my not having been there. I like to hear of all the things that were said in the silences I wasn’t there to fill. I exhaust myself, so loudly and heavily I fill a space. I suck up all the breath, no one breathes when I am there not even me. I only breathe when I am alone, but I so rarely am, seeking out the company of others like a carrion bird to a carcass.

[poetinside]

he tells me i have to be okay with being bad at things to get good at them. you have to let go of the desire to succeed, in order to succeed. we’re talking about writing or basketball i can’t be sure but i think what he’s telling me is this isn’t going to work. i think he’s telling me there’s something permanently and invisibly wrong with me. my toenails grow inwards as if they’ve been ordered to by some higher power. the locks on my doors are backwards so i’m always turning keys the wrong way, leaving myself open to attack, or worse, locking myself out in a desperate attempt to find a way in. your late twenties are feet that are always dirty even though you haven’t been anywhere. your late twenties are arguing with your mother about buying a mattress on craigslist and realizing maybe you aren’t ready to be this person yet. he tells me i think too much. i try to think less but end up thinking too much about thinking. he says think about drawing an egg on a plain white page. no white crayon only black. draw the shadows, he says. don’t let your thoughts be the egg, he says, they are only as real as the effect they have, the shadows they cast on the flat, white surface. i think i am the egg. i am the hot and sticky yolk that drips between fingertips, down elbows. my thoughts are wet and yellow.

[poetinside]

the day you left

i woke early, my shoulders hard and rounded, my neck aching you were already gone i made promises to my toothpaste-speckled reflection a to-do list poem, an ode to a productive day then i piled all four pillows on my side of the bed and fell back asleep sitting upright, my chin on my chest the day you left i woke again at two made eggs, ate two slices of toast keto be damned walked to the Save-On Foods and bought a $7 home dye kit an hour later my hair was a lighter shade of brown, my fingers burned where the bleach met my eczema-ravaged skin my favourite pyjamas, stained the day you left i was determined to get my steps in so i walked on Glen to that park we used to go to, the one with the swings that were too small for us, i stopped for awhile listening to a birdsong and tried to spot its caller, but all i saw were crows, three of them battled with a spotted, grey pigeon for space on a low branch. i walked on, past a house where a man barbecued shirtless. past a house with a birdbath in its front yard a crow emerged from the green-glowing pool and flew into a nearby tree it shook its wet feathers and the water landed, cool and dirty on my almost-the-same-colour-as-it-was-when-you-left-hair the day you left i ate oatmeal for dinner, watched several episodes of that Netflix documentary and felt guilty for watching it without you. not wanting to mess up your queue i  logged out and created a separate user page, thought about changing the password then decided against it. took a long shower and washed my hair with purple shampoo. stood before my reflection and tried to squeeze a blackhead on my neck, under my chin where the skin is fleshy and hard to grasp. i squeezed until the spot was red until the skin broke and bled, but could not get the bad stuff out i dabbed it with toothpaste, a minty scab the day you left i slept on your side of the bed, my bleeding pasty chin flat against the mattress, our pillows, my pillows now forming a barricade around me, should i fall  

[poetinside]

first

She entered, snow-blown, flustered, a mess of damp fabric and blue lips. Her hair was different than it had been in her profile picture. It was straight now, wispy and chin-length, mostly hidden beneath a knit hat. She waited in line to speak to the hostess, shuffling from foot to foot to get the snow off her boots. She removed the hat and tucked it in the pocket of her coat, then slowly unwound her scarf. She shuddered slightly and he knew, then, that a bit of snow or ice had fallen from her loosened scarf down the back of her shirt. He didn’t so much know this as feel it, the single drip of cold water melting against her skin sending a shiver down his own spine. He shifted in his seat. He felt, as he often did in the presence of a beautiful woman, like a teenager again, at odds with his own body. To counteract this feeling he had a system. A set of controls put in place to limit his anxiety. He always arrived first, even if that meant making a reservation half an hour earlier than the agreed upon time. He always requested a table facing the entrance, so that he could see his date when she arrived. He needed those moments, the minute or two it took for her to reach him, to steady himself. It helped him to see these women stumble through the awkward, human pantomime of waiting in line, approaching the hostess, giving a name. There really was no smooth way to remove the myriad layers required for surviving a Montreal winter, and watching these women unravel soothed him. It reminded him that they were likely just as nervous as he was. Reminded him that they had chose him, of all people, to spend this cold, winter night with. In those moments, when the women would stumble slightly into their chairs, maybe knocking over a fork or making forced small talk with the hostess, he felt worthy.

She smoothed her hair with two hands, the palms white against her brown skin. She tucked the fly away bits behind her ears and glanced around the room. She spotted him easily. He was tall, taller even than he seemed in his photographs. She liked this, though she couldn’t articulate why. Some sort of evolutionary instinct, maybe. Or perhaps it was just because her own height made her feel ungainly, too much person for every space she inhabited. She wanted to feel matched, to know what it was like to look up at someone, to feel the rough scratch of stubble against her forehead. She wanted to shrink against someone, to feel herself disappear between the folds of a shadow longer and broader than her own. He was also white, a fact that was neither here nor there. She knew that these differences between them would materialize like hairpin turns on foggy roads. She knew that somewhere down the line, should they make it that far, they would have to learn to navigate these shadowy places where their pasts diverged, creating chasms of unknowability between them. But not tonight. Tonight she just hoped he was nice. This was a prosaic word, she knew. A nothing word. “Nice.” But it was what she wanted, at the end of the day. After everything was said and done she just wanted someone to be good, someone to be kind, someone who derived pleasure from making someone else happy and who wasn’t broken in some way that demanded the pain of others as recompense for that hurt.

She arrived and he stood. “Samantha?” he said, though of course it was her. 

“Hi!” she said, breathy, still shivering slightly. “Sam. Sammy,” she added. She wished she hadn’t. It was too intimate, she thought. But she smiled and sat. He waited for her to sit first and then lowered himself into his chair. 

“It’s nasty out there, eh?” he said. “So gross. Waited ages for the bus. Sorry I’m late. Wait, am I late?” “No, no. I was just early. What bus do you catch?” “The 80. On du Parc.” She pulled the candle closer to her, holding her hand above the flame, letting it burn her slightly before pulling away. “Oh nice. So you live in the Mile End?”

“No…further out. Parc Ex.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah the Mile End’s pretty unaffordable these days. I remember when I lived there in college, it was dirt cheap. Now it’s pretty much on par with the Plateau.”

“Yeah. Well, I also like living in Parc Ex.” He cursed inwardly. “Of course. I didn’t mean…”

“Oh I know. I wasn’t offended.”

“There’s an amazing Greek bakery there.”

“Afroditi?”

“Yes! The cookies..” “Life changing.”

“Exactly.” They laughed. Relief flooding through both their systems like a shot of espresso. She thought about asking him if he was Greek, but decided against it. Identity, culture, origins. These were minefields she wanted to delay traversing. He was blushing. She liked this. She decided she would try to make him blush at least one more time before the night was through. The waitress arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses.  “I pre-ordered this. I hope that’s okay?” he said. She smiled. “It’s more than okay. Saves me having to pretend to know anything about wine.”

“I know, right? It’s got to be the most awkward part of any date. The wine selection.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I think paying the bill is probably worse.”

“Oh god, you’re right. We have that to look forward to.” “If we make it that far.” She laughed as she said it. She always laughed at her own jokes. It was infectious. He relaxed, taking a sip of wine. They were quiet for a moment, but it was a nice quiet. The silence had a texture to it, like the air was settling around them, tucking them in. The restaurant was busy, but there was no one close enough to permeate their bubble. The door opened often, but Sam couldn’t feel a draft. “This is a great table,” she said, finally.

“Can I make a confession? It might make me seem like a total douchebag.”

“Go for it.”

“This is my twentieth date at this restaurant. I picked this table specifically, through trial and error. I figured out it was the best on date, like, eleven.” He held his breath. It had been a strategic move, telling her this. It could come off as disarming and refreshing or it might make him seem like a sociopath. He couldn’t even pretend she was the first woman he’d made this confession to. It was a tactic he’d wielded before. 

Samantha didn’t reply, taking a sip of her wine and glancing around the room, nodding slightly as if sizing up his choice of table. She leaned forward slightly, her wine grasped with two hands, one eyebrow cocked, “So tell me, how did the other nineteen dates react when you told them that?” He froze, all the blood rushing from his face. Sam didn’t think he could get any paler. She burst out laughing. After a minute he laughed too, sitting back in his chair, his hands in his lap. All the blood in his entire body seemed to have returned to his cheeks in one go. Success, Sam thought. This was too easy, making him blush. She might need to up the target to five times in one night. 

“I feel like an asshole,” he said, finally, laughing. “Don’t. It’s okay. This whole thing is predicated on artifice. It’s an unspoken agreement entered into by two people on a date not to call bullshit on all the..you know..bullshit.”

He grinned. This was the kind of conversation he loved. He revelled in the meta-ness of things. It seemed like Sam did too. “So tell me,” he said, “what is the biggest piece of bullshit in your profile?”

Sam laughed. A loud bark of a laugh. Soon, he would come to learn the meters of her laugh. The near-silent, wheezing fits she collapsed into when she was high. The guffawing, screaming laugh she made when speaking to family back home. This laugh, the barking one, was when she was surprised. Pleased in an unexpected way. This laugh would become his favourite. He would never grow tired of finding ways evoke it. “Oh god are we making these kinds of confessions already?” she said. “Why not?” he said, “let’s call bullshit.”

“Ok. I’m game. Umm…ok. I got it,” she covered her face with her hands, grinning. He waited, not goading her. Patience was one of his strengths. Finally she said, “Ok you know that picture, the one where I’m on a boat, in a mask and snorkel?”

“Yellow bikini? Yes I definitely remember.” Sam threw a bread roll at him. He caught it and took a bite, still grinning. 

Sam sighed. “I never actually went snorkelling. Two minutes after that picture was taken, I had a huge panic attack and couldn’t get in the water. I spent the whole day on the boat, eating crackers and reading.” She buried her face behind her hands again, peeking out at him between her fingers.

He laughed, but only a little. She seemed genuinely mortified. “Hey, that’s not so bad. Really, compared to my whole table speech that’s nothing. So what happened? Can’t you swim?”

“Yes, I can swim,” she said, her voice harsher than she meant it to be. There it was, one of those sudden bends in the road, a little crack that could become a chasm if they weren’t careful. 

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I can’t swim.”

Sam’s eyes widened, “You can’t?”

He laughed. “No…I never learned. I grew up in Saskatchewan. There was one public pool in my hometown and it was practically a biohazard. I saw a kid throw up in there when I was in Grade Two and I was scarred for life. My parents could never get me back in.”

“I guess I thought…” Sam trailed off. “That all white people could swim?” he said. Sam laughed again, the best laugh, the barking one. He smiled, pleased he could catch her off guard. Pleased that he could make her laugh without her expecting it.

“I guess so? God that sounds terrible. How prejudiced of me. Anyway, yes, I can swim. I love to swim actually, I grew up near the beach. I used to go snorkelling all the time when I was a kid. In that picture, I was on vacation with my friends. We were in the Corn Islands, off the coast of Nicaragua? In fact, it was my idea to go snorkelling. I nagged my friends about it for days, hired a fisherman to take us out there, the whole shebang. And then, the day of, I freaked out.”

“But I don’t get it. You’ve snorkelled loads of times before, what happened? Were there sharks of something?” “Nope. Not even. I just couldn’t do it. Isn’t that nuts? To go from loving something to being incapable of doing it, overnight? Like one day your brain just goes, nope, not today.”

“Hmm. Well maybe it happened for a reason. Maybe something bad would have happened if you’d gone in the water.”

Sam grinned. “So you believe in fate?”

“Totally. You?”

“Yup.” Their eyes met then and he blushed. That’s three, thought Sam.

“So,” he said, “I need to learn how to swim and you need to overcome your sudden onset snorkelling phobia. We should…” He stopped, looking down at his plate.

“We should what?”

“Nothing. Should we call the waitress over? I’m starving.”

“Tell me what you were going to say.” She kicked him lightly under the table. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It didn’t fall back in place after he did this, like she thought it would. It stayed stuck up, in a million different directions. Sam liked it better that way. She would tell him that, months later. And he would let her style it for him, when she had the time before work. “I was going to say we should go on holiday. I’m embarrassed. Basically, my friends told me I tend to rush into things. That I freak women out by suggesting…by you know, making plans too early.”

Sam laughed. “That’s funny. My friends say I’m too slow to let people in. That I need to open up. Take more risks.”

“What unreliable friends we have.”

“So fickle.”

“Bullshit?”

“Total, grass-fed, free range, bullshit.” They grinned at each other again. There food came and they dug in. Sam ate fast, closing her eyes between bites and moaning slightly. They ate in near silence. He liked this, that they seemed focused on the food, on savouring each bite.

After their plates had been cleared away Sam went on, “It’s like I said earlier, you know? This whole thing, the dating thing, it’s so..ceremonial? You know? Like we’re obviously both looking for companionship, right?” She paused here, testing the waters, any sign of hesitation on his part and she’d change gears quick, head back into safe, first-date-banter territory. But he nodded eagerly, leaning forward slightly. “We sign up on this website where the explicit goal is to meet someone to spend the rest of your life with,” she went on, “and yet we go on date after date where we basically put forward this version of ourselves that’s nothing like the person we’ll actually be, should the relationship be successful. It doesn’t make any sense.” “It’s like false advertising.”

“Yes! Except, the weird paradox is that if you don’t go through the motions, play the game, dole out the bullshit, you’re less likely to get past the dating phase and into the comfortable relationship phase where you can drop this pretence. It’s like you have to pretend to not want what you want in order to get what you want.” He sat back, thinking. The waitress came by and offered dessert, they both declined. After a beat he said, “Are you pretending right now?”

Sam laughed, then stopped, suddenly serious. This was an important question, and she wanted to answer honestly. “I don’t know. I don’t think so? But I know I want you to like me, so maybe I’m pretending a little bit.” She bit her lip, running her hands through her hair again. “Are you?” “I think I’m always pretending. A little bit. Even when I’m by myself.” He hadn’t meant to say this. He’d planned to say “no”. He’d planned to tell her that he felt completely himself with her. Which was true. But it was also true that he never felt completely anything. Sam fidgeted in her seat. He sighed inwardly, regretting everything. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that got dark super fast.” “No! It didn’t. I just really have to pee,” Sam said, laughing.

“Oh! Go ahead.” He watched her walk to the bathroom. The waitress dropped the bill. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. He wasn’t ready for the date to end but he wasn’t sure how to prolong it without seeming like he was just after sex. Plenty of these dates had led to sex before. And not much else after. Some had ended with awkward hugs, promises to meet again soon, only for the days to go by with neither party making the effort. He didn’t want that to happen with Sam. He just wanted to keep talking to her, to keep hearing her talk, as long as she wanted to. 

In the bathroom, Sam stood before the mirror and tried to flatten her bangs into submission. She resisted the urge to pick at a zit on her chin. She rummaged in her bag for gum and, finding none, rinsed her mouth out with a dollop of hand soap. She wanted to be kissed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted more than that but the kissing part she was sure about. She headed back to the table, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder before sitting. “Now for the worst part of the date,” she said, smiling. “What do you mean?” he said, worried. He thought maybe she was going to break up with him, then he remembered this was a first date.  “Paying the bill!” she said, grinning. “Oh,” he said, sheepish, “I already took care of it. Is that ok?” Sam liked that he did this. Preordered wine, settled the bill. It wasn’t that she expected men to pay for everything, it was just nice not to have to coordinate for once. Her life was full of little chores, tiny decisions that had to be made moment to moment. How nice it was to not have to do that tonight. Soon, without realizing it, Sam would come to rely on this aspect of his personality. The way he double-checked they had their passports so she didn’t have to. The way he always paid for more parking than they needed, took care of the car insurance, watered the plants. She would fold her life into his bit by bit, until she couldn’t remember what it was like before him. But tonight, she didn’t know any of that. All she knew was that he was nice.  “Yes. Thank you. I’ll get it next time though.” “So there will be a next time?” Sam looked at him for a moment. Then she held her hand out across the table, her pink finger extended. “We’re making a no bullshit pact right now,” she said. He grinned and hooked his finger through hers. “Ok,” he said, “I do solemnly swear to always say what I mean.”

“As do I!” “And right now I honestly am regretting not ordering dessert.”

Sam laughed. “Me too,” she said, biting her lip slightly she added, “I know this place that makes amazing cookies…”

[poetinside]

I...need him still.

I hope he thinks of me Like words that melt On the tip of his tongue Like split infinitives and Misused semi-colons I hope he misses me like He misses every word unwritten When words won’t come I hope he misses me like Every word that never followed I… I hope he thinks of me On cold days when the sun Shines distant in grey skies Warming nothing And winter slips down his Shirt collar and settles At the base of his spine I hope he misses me Like he misses the scarf He thought he did not Need I hope he thinks of me On sweaty nights When solitary limbs Escape heavy sheets And sleep is no savior I hope he misses me Like the soft curve of The back of a knee Like sleeping hands Reaching for stirring Chests at midnight Hands that know He needs to be touched Hands that know Him I hope he thinks of me  On Monday mornings As he ponders the Endless traffic Unable to shake the feeling That he is forgetting something I hope he misses me Like he misses that thing That indeterminable dot In his peripheral vision Which he chases around His inner eyelid Unable to keep it Still

[poetinside]

coarse.

There is a thick, black hair that grows amongst the downy strands around my belly button an alien intruder from the weedy crop below

I remove it pulling taut the skin there and pinching sharply at the base. Hold it up to the light, examine the white, wet, root. Thumb the flesh tug at air where once there was something to hold on to

[poetinside]

#throwback

sleepless.

[poetinside]

Last night he split atoms with his tongue, pulled me apart, particle by particle, until I was but a splatter of fissile dots ornamenting his bedspread.

[poetinside]

For All The Women Who Don’t Think Before They Scream

I’m no introverted bookworm Pixie/dream/girl/coffeeshop/waif My eyes aren’t doe-like they are Black pools of acid rain my Resting bitch face is atomic Bomb, I’m too goddamn loud Too tall, too broad-shouldered You cannot toss me, laughing  Into the deep-end, I cannot be Easily led, there is simply too much Of me, I twirl with all the grace of A tornado

My wrists are not fine they Are thick like whale bones they Steady my fists, fingers curled to palm Poised for battling mirror demons I have never had a thought I didn’t Spray paint across my features I Tend to yell before I have figured out What is I’m trying to say, I am not Fragile, I’m shattered glass all Sharp edges and cut corners I don’t have any endearing quirks I Don’t braid wildflowers through my hair Or eat my dessert first I am not a  Crazy, beautiful mess I am all the  Colours on the palate blended To grey-brown, I am trampled earth I am muddy mornings For all the women who don’t think Before they scream, for all the foghorn Girls, the black rocks at the river bottom The women too sturdy, too whole, too hard To be treated as precious, to be handled With care, the women with smiles too Toothy, nails too short, voices too deep For all the women who demand things who Go kicking and screaming into the dawn who Hear no so often they have learned  To stop asking and start taking who Never did learn their best angles who Grimace in photographs and drink too  Much and dance on tables because they  Learned sometimes the spotlight Is the only place they never  Think to look

The women who are told they are too Cold to love, too hard to love, who cry But never let them see it for all The women who are alone not because They want to be, but because they have to be For all my echo women, my shadow queens My mad, sad, lonely, living, dancing, creating Loving fiercely, bravely, time and time again In spite of them all, for my tidal women My flesh and bone women My nightmares.

[poetinside]

Sometimes I wonder if Americans knew how much time the average Canadian spends shit talking Americans if they would still think we're so nice 😇

[poetinside]

I'm too lazy to examine why exactly it bothers me but I find this whole "boys wearing skirts to protest their right to wear shorts in summer" thing, and the media reaction to it, tiresome. Maybe bc when boys ignore the dress code the powers at be react with "aw shucks boys will be boys" but when girls do it they get forced to change by security guards with guns? 

[poetinside]

2017

Patiently waiting for trap music to no longer be a thing, day 170...

[poetinside]

There are some things I would change, if I could I would teach you how to braid your hair, I would Keep you out of the sun at high noon and tell you  Not to pick at your face until it bleeds I would Warn you that your skin won’t bounce back The way it once did. If I could whisper in your ear At the piano stool and convince you to sit still if I could Tell you that you will regret not paying more attention In physics class If I could show you, somehow What a gift it is just to sit and be taught If I could make you Read more, play more, dance more, smile more If I could, I would I would change all that. But I would never sew an extra inch on your favourite Crop top Or tell you to climb down off a single barstool I wouldn’t deny you not one line, one joint, one pill, I would Not take back one word spoken in anger Or undo any of your misdeeds I wouldn’t unkiss a single lip, I would never Silence you Not ever I would never tell you to think about Your reputation I wouldn’t rewind a single heartbreak Or forgo not one infatuation, or backseat affair I would not warn you about any of those half-loves  Or shield you from any of those canon ball boys I would take none of that away from you  Because I know what it is to be loved wholly now In all my volume and for all my nicotine scars. I know now what it is to love myself too And you taught me that On those wild nights When the room spun away from you and You grasped at the walls and floor for balance And you felt so lost then, and so afraid and so tired, but You held on to you, to us You held tightly on to all that we were  And all that we could be And I would not change that

[poetinside]

Not sure what goddess I accidentally pleased this week but the good news keeps rolling in. In addition to the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, I’ve been Longlisted for the CBC Short Story Prize!! :O:O:O

[poetinside]

Super, ridiculously thrilled to announce I've been shortlisted for the 2017 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. Read excerpts from all the short listed entries here!

[poetinside]

Hey Friends! If any of you find yourselves in Vancouver on April 4th come join us at the Central Branch of the VPL for a reading by Canadian immigrant women writers (myself included!) It's free :)

[poetinside]

I took what was supposed to be a super light- hearted BuzzFeed quiz that guesses my personality type based on my font preference and now I'm in bed questioning every social interaction I've ever had. THIS IS TOO REAL. I WAS NOT READY.