Solving for F

Hidden-Figures-13.jpg

My brain has been ticking for months

got me feeling like math class,

pulling my gum, twisting it around my finger

eyes fixed on the page, staring at the problem,

body cemented in angsty agony

praying for the bell to ring

so I can put it aside for another day

begging the universe for more time

to try figure out how to solve for F

Freedom or Facism

or

freedom from facism

How do I balance the equation?

Got me like Taraji in Hidden Figures

up on that ladder

skirt leaning while I sway

I need me a computer

in the form of all those brilliant

rad and mad woc who got us to space

I need to accept that computer is the way to soar

Yeah, I think that is a metaphor

We’ve got to teach us how

to break these chains and fly

We be how we solve for F

Computing, how to Fuck this Shit all the way Up.

Rain

Sometimes you just want to stand in the rain

Sometimes you just need to stand in the rain

It doesn’t matter that you don’t have a raincoat

It doesn’t matter that your glasses catch droplets of rain

Something tells you to stand still,

Ignore your knee jerk reaction to pull your hood up

Hug your jacket close

You just open your arms

Turn your face to the sky

And stand

 

 

Stardust

I’m not shiny, I’m not happy,

I am hurt and damaged

Most days I want to slice myself open,

Rip out my heart, tear apart my soul

And throw myself into a deep dark pond because

That would be easier than figuring this shit out

That would be simpler than asking myself

Where the fuck do I go from here ?

How the hell do I find happiness in this shithole called my life?

That’s most days.

Then there are some days where I remember,

I stand outside and stare at the night sky

I let the darkness surround me and gaze at stars

I tell myself that I am made of fucking stardust

And anything is possible

I tell myself that I am smaller than a grain of sand on a beach

I am atoms, and molecules and energy and life

And I can just be

I can just breathe

Because I am fucking stardust.

Dust

the thing that tugs at me from my  last relationship is not the fact that she and I didn’t work out, because, bless her. I mean, bless her. Hell in a handbasket that one, but the emphatic way in which she professed her love for me. Then just shut it off. Which if I’m honest, I shut mine off too. I tumbled head first into love, because that is actually, not a thing I do. I am meticulous and I analyze and this time I didn’t. I didn’t think, I just lept, and I’m not sorry for it, I’m not ashamed of it. What I am sorry for is that I let her speak in absolutes. I let her tell me that she would always love me. That she would love me forever. She didn’t even love me for a month. I’m smarter than that. I’m wiser than that but I let her. And here’s the thing, the whole time the smarter, wiser part of me was raging against it, part of me believed her. Part of me thought, maybe this gorgeous, lively, drunken mess will love me all the days of her life. And here’s the part I resent, pay attention: the part I resent is that I let that possibility creep in, and it didn’t work out. And now, it has fed my complex. I have an unlovability complex, you see, and she fed it. Piled it high with sticks and brush, poured gasoline on it, dropped a match and walked away as that motherfucker burned.

My mother gave me up for adoption when I was a baby. Gave me up. What the fuck kind of a phrase is that? Then, people are obsessed with adopting things, pets, railways, freeways, elephants, things. I’m lumped together with a fucking freeway and I wonder why I feel less than. Why I feel unimportant. Then I wonder why seeing people as carbon copies of those they share DNA with makes me want to grind my bones into dust.

I was given up for adoption when I was a baby. A woman who was supposed to love me forever gave me away like a pair of jeans and a girl who said she’d love me forever didn’t even stick around to watch me turn to ash.

And it’s not about her. I don’t love her. That’s not the point. The point is that I have an unlovability complex and I am ash. I am dust. And I need that fucking shit to change. The point is I share a category with a fucking freeway.

That’s the fucking point.

Proof

A girl walks

Along wet city streets

Heels click click click

On pavement

She runs her hand

Along stone walls

A finger snags

Flesh is torn

She resumes her walk

Blood drip drip drips

On crooked sidewalk

The only proof

She was there

Soon to be

Washed away

By drop drop drops

Of pouring rain.

Time Heals

It is said that time heals all wounds.  A trite statement, to say the least, yet as time wears on, I find more and more truth hidden within its depths.  To say that time heals, is perhaps an oversimplification, let us say instead, time allows.  Time allows for things to move, for us to learn, grow, evaluate and evolve.

Today, I did a thing which I expected to rip me open, expected to tear the flesh from my breast and expose my beating, battered, heart.  I re-read an email I had received from a woman I used to love.  Or to be more precise, a woman onto whom I had projected ideals, and having done so, fell in love with who I perceived her to be.

We had a falling out.  To be more specific, I professed my bleeding, broken, baby queer love and was slapped down, like an upstart kid.  Rightfully so.  But fuck, did it hurt.  Like salt in a wound I throbbed.  My entire being throbbed with the pain of rejection, of confusion, of denial.

I raged against the idea that I could have possibly misunderstood the aspects of our relationship.  I raged against the thought that my perceptions, the lens through which I viewed my life and the people I let into it, could possibly have been clouded by the circumstances of my past, rather than the perceived reality of the present.

Thus, a period of discovery was entered.

I wrote and wrote, poem after poem, rant after rant, pages and pages and pages and pages of text. Of hurt, of pain, of longing, of lust.  I recounted, I recanted, I remembered, I misremembered, I raged. Months and months and months passed.  Years passed.

I do this thing, which my friend thinks is crazy; she thinks it is just begging to sink me into the deep, dark, depressions which are so often my truest lovers, my dearest friends:  I re-read my journals. Often. My pages and pages and pages of text.  I rip myself open again and again to see.  To see what can be seen.

And that is what I did.  I read and re-read and skipped some sections and went back and read those sections and became so infuriated with myself.  So sad about myself, because I had been – was still so lost and deluded and sad.

I had projected so much onto this person, this woman.  She was never who I thought she was.  Nor was I ever who she thought I was.  We were merely sets of ideas and experiences and thoughts and emotions coming together and drifting apart and coming together and drifting apart until the drifting was all that was left.

She told me this thing, which has stuck with me, to this day…so many days later, she said “I am not who you think I am.”  I didn’t understand what she meant.  It took me years of writing and reading and knowing myself to understand, a bit, of what she was saying.  I didn’t see her. I couldn’t see her.  I was looking through glasses which were so thick and hazy that I couldn’t even see myself.

Until I ripped myself open.  Until I let the wound bleed.  Let it fester and sore and puss and run and dry and crack and heal.  I looked into myself.  I sat in silence and knew myself.

Parts of me were hard to know.

Parts of me screamed in pain and anger and pain and anger and rage and pain and anger and rage and hurt and betrayal. But I began to see myself.  I read and re-read my writing and I ripped myself open and I discovered something.  Something beautiful and surprising.  I saw the distance.  Saw where I began, and how hazy and clouded and dripping with pain and trauma my perception was.  I saw how I had been conditioned, opened up, made ready to be broken.  And I was broken.

But I learned about myself, and learned how to begin to love myself and learned how to love others well and true.  Or begin to.

I retraced my steps.  Listened to music I loved when I was younger, watched television shows, read books, read essays.  Delved deep down into the psyche of my past self and wandered through the corridors of my mind.  Walked and walked and walked until I arrived at that moment.  When my beating, bruised heart was broken and went further.  I walked until I met myself.

And I did the thing.  I did what I thought would break me, what I had been so averted to for so long, I re-read the e-mail she sent me.  The e-mail that deluded me.  That I clung to with some distant, tenuous thread in the farthest reaches of my subconscious.

I was not averted.

My vision was clear.  The haze which had clouded my view for so long had lifted and I thought to be angry.  Thought to rage at myself for clinging so long to someone and something that was never meant to be mine.  Then I realized that had I not, I would not have the perspective that I have today.  Would not have been ripped open and so would not have written and written and read and re-read and arrived here.  I would be elsewhere.  Still battered, and bleeding and broken.

Shattered.

Because I did, I am mending, healing.  Learning and evolving and no, time may not, perhaps can not heal all wounds, but it certainly allows. That is a lesson worth ripping myself open for again and again and again. It is a lesson I will never tire of learning.