Baby Soap

My toes were pruned from being in the water for too long. The bubles had become nothing more than whisps of white over the water, licking the the exposed parts of my body. They covered none of my imperfections, just slightly mask them.

Taking a deep breath and plugging my nose, I sunk my head below the water line. I did some of my best thinking underwater. I opened my eyes. It was like trying to see through saran wrap. My vision was blurred, but I could feel my hair branch out and float in the water. I looked up and counted the bubbles remaining on the surface. I think there were four.

Ideas about life and death penetrated my mind. Questions about why nothing is ever perfect. Wondering when things would get better the way you always told me they would. I was able to appreciate the promise you made me, but I was jealous of your content.

I lowered my elbows to the bottom of the tub and brought my head above the water. I held still for a moment and appreciated the solitude I found from the water and my Johnson's bedtime baby bath soap. It smelt like lavender. I decided to make lavender my favorite smell.

I sat up so my upper half was vulnerable to the cold air. I left the damn window open again. I stretched over to grab my razor and shaving cream. I sprayed the pink foam onto my leg and started doing my thing. Baths remind me of you. They remind me of the friendship we had. It was the closest one I had since L left. You were just like her. Your brown curly hair and freckles that kissed your nose. Your oversized brown eyes. Your fears and your hopes. Your sentiment. The way your promises began to sound like forever, and slowly dwindled to an empty, "we'll see."

That's when I cut my leg. The thought of deceived friendships always made my hands unsteady. I ran my palms over my smooth skin to make sure I didn't miss a spot. When I finished I slid my leg back into the warm water. I watched the blood dissolve into a cloud of red until it slowly vanish. I moved onto the next leg.

I ran the razor up my leg as I thought about the way you kissed me. How it was soft and polite. How you tucked your hand behind my neck. How you stopped and made me watch the movie I so adamantly chose. I wished I had done today different. I wished I hadn't let the circumstances at home affect my demeanor throughout the day. The pms got to me as regret swelled in my eyes. Stupid. So Stupid.

I stroked my leg once again to make sure I didn't miss a spot. I put down the razor and lowered my body below the warm water line. I rolled onto my stomach and rested my head against the cold porcelain tub. I inhaled a deep lavender scented breath, and exhaled all my rueful thoughts.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

I Make Everyone Proud But You

I can't sleep. Your repentant words echo throughout my head. 
"I've created something selfish and spoiled, something that I now regret." 

I'll be getting ready for a long day come the early morning rays of sunshine. I'll turn on my Christmas lights, open my blinds, feed my cat, make my bed, brush my teeth, pull my hair into a bun, get into my freezing cold car and leave for school. As I do my morning tasks, your words will haunt me. They will chase after my brain and remind me of everything I'm not. The problem is that you won't remember. You never remember.  Many hours after I leave, you will wake up from your sleep. You'll roll out of bed, take out your night guard, go pee and turn on the coffee. You'll mosey your way back to your bedroom and lay on your mattress. Maybe you'll think about our fight from tonight. Maybe it'll cross your mind that there was no end result. You taught me to never go to bed angry or upset with another living being. But here I am, laying in bed, waiting on you as you're probably waiting on me. 

I'm sorry for yelling. I'm sorry for being disrespectful. I'm sorry for being lazy. I'm sorry for being selfish. I'm sorry for disappointing you. I'm sorry for not being what you expected. I'm sorry for not being what you wanted. I'm sorry for becoming something you regret. I'm sorry for not being enough. 
It's never enough. 

"It's okay that you are the way you are though, it's my fault."

You can blame yourself for me turning out this way. That's fine. Blame yourself. Beat yourself up for the terrible human I've become. The bottom line isn't whose fault it is that I turned out this way, it's the fact that I've become something you're ashamed of. And that isn't anyone's fault but mine. It is me that is disappointing. It is me that is the regret. It is me that is selfish. It is me that is self seeking. It is me. It's me. Despite me being my own person, you seem to believe I've become a fuck-up because of you. If that's what you want to walk in, then by all means. Do it. 

Because I couldn't have possibly turned out to be this way because of my own thoughts, actions, desires, wants and needs. It couldn't possibly have to do with me continually overworking myself because I try to be enough for you and everyone else on this God forsaken planet, but never measure up to what I should. It definitely isn't the fact that I'm a candle that's been burnt from both ends. It is absolutely, 100%, undoubtedly because I want to make your life as miserable as possible. 

Yes. That must be it. 

But you don't have to be disappointed in me, hate me, or regret me. I already do all of that enough for the both of us. So stop wasting your time and realize that these not-so-sober arguments get us no where but deeper into this self hatred I'm already wallowing in. 

Yours until the goddamn pigs fly, 
Alessondra Marie

1 Corinthians 13:4-7

I frequently listen to the shitty recordings of your songs. The guitar is well balanced. But your voice floods only my right ear. Your songs get stuck in my head all the time. N1 still makes my heart flutter. Not in the same way, just an endearing, "I miss this" kind of way. I miss you. I miss the way you understood me. I miss your constructive honesty. The way you'd hold me accountable. The way it would make me furious. The way you'd nearly sing me to sleep on iChat. The way I'd click on the end button because I didn't want you to watch me sleep. The way you begged for me to just be my honest self. I often find myself asking if what we had was real. We were so young, but does that really discredit the sincerity of what we felt? Does it abolish the feelings I couldn't explain? 

But I'm older now. I know it was unreasonable for me to expect you to walk through my bedroom door when I was home alone and afraid of the groans and whispers the house walls made. I know it was unreasonable for me to hope you would surprise me by coming home a day earlier than you told me you were going to. I know it was unreasonable to expect you to say the exact right thing at that exact moment. You taught me that the right thing wasn't always nice. Nor was it usually what I wanted to hear. But you were capable of that heartfelt honesty. 

You came into my life at a pivotal moment. It was an essential time in my adolescence and my walk with Christ. Meeting you swayed the decisions I made regarding school and friends. I was so alone. I was surrounded by people that I knew, but I didn't know any of them. No one was interested in the things I was learning. No one was concerned with the crosses I bore. You were an instrumental piece to my growing pains. 

Now I know that it's okay to wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm allowed to have feelings. And although sometimes they're going to be rejected, it's far more important to let them be known than allow them to be a mystery. You taught me that taking the risk is sometimes the most significant action in a relationship. If I don't, then there won't be a relationship. I've realized that I can't keep everything locked up. Most of the time, it'll be more beneficial for me to tell someone, anyone, than no one at all. 

I loved you as much as a confused fifteen year old girl is capable of loving a seventeen year old young man. Unfortunately for our relationship, I have since surpassed my fifteen year old capabilities. But God has a reason for everything. He gave me you so I could learn how to love someone to my fullest potential. 

Although I am entitled to my fantasies, I'm not allowed to literally expect them from a man, and get upset when it doesn't happen. I no longer have these disillusions of what could be. I realize what is and I'm content with that. I'm easily satisfied. 

And I owe that to you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Lessons Learned

This is me learning a lesson. 

Trust no one,
feel nothing, 
do not invest, 
and never be like that. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Gungor

I play my piano completely exposed. I allow my towel to fall onto the bench while I touch each key softly with my fingertips, just hard enough to formulate a G major. I work the progression from G to A to D until my voice grows tired. Each note touches my naked skin; becomes absorbed into my open pores and resonates throughout my bare body. My hair falls into wet curls partially over my shoulder. I feel the cool droplets descending onto the small of my back.
All this pain,
I wonder if I'll ever find my way.
I wonder if my life could really change at all. 

I press my foot down onto the sustain pedal as I push down on the last chord. The notes carry themselves out as I turn my head to look at my reflection. I see the silhouette of each vertebrae poking through my back. I see the way my 12 ribs say hello. I see my collar bone, I see my tiny wrists. But I also see the fat rolls on the front of my stomach. I see the stretch marks on my thighs and the bare cellulite kissing my piano bench. It's never good enough for me. Is it good enough for you?
You make beautiful things...
You make beautiful things out of the dust. 

Images swarm my head. They're like cartoons, teasing the fears in my brain; wondering what I'm trying to make of myself and asking if this is worth it. Telling me that if I give up, it'll make me a coward. 
All around,
Hope is springing up from this old ground.
Out of chaos life is being found in You.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Cold Association

There's a feeling I associate with winter. The feeling always comes when things are going wonderful, but on the brink of being awful. It's almost more bitter than it is sweet.
"What the hell am I doing?"

It's the way the cold air kisses my exposed cheeks. It's the way my lungs feel when they became icy. It's the way the anxiety of what is to happen bubbles in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?"

I remember feeling homesick and desperate to find something familiar. I looked up to the steadfast sky, but even that was a stranger. I searched for the bears, the hunter, the princess and queen. But they weren't there. I said out loud, "Even the stars are different here." No one responded to me. No one even glanced my way as my scared, hot breath fogged the air in front of me. My nose started to run as my eyes swelled with tears, "I'm cold. I'm going inside." The cold, my sweet alibi.
"What the hell am I doing?"

You turned up the music as I sat in your car. You told me to drop the blanket and get out. We're going to dance. I don't dance. But I grabbed your free hand as you gently put the other on the small of my back. I rested my head against your chest and heard your heart beating. I gazed past your car, past the Livermore hills, past even the clouds. The stars twinkled bright as I asked them,
"What the hell am I doing?"

I ran out of my house and to my car, holding on to my purse and hood as if my life depended on it. I felt my messy ponytail thump, thump, thump against my neck. The buckets of water pouring from heaven and the broken street lights made it seem impossible to drive half an hour to school. Terrified, I put my hands on the steering wheel and pressed on the gas peddle. Not nearly ready to go I said to myself,
"What the hell am I doing?"

Everything starts with I and ends with me. It's time to grow up, and deny the definite theme echoed throughout my life.
"What the hell am I doing?"

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

Creep.

Sometimes I just want to yell, "fuck off." 
Just fuck you and fuck off.
I don't really want to say it to anyone specific. I just want to cry it to the wind and let the sound waves impact the first soul it finds. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry with myself. 
All the time.

I don't care if it hurts,

I want to have control,

I want a perfect body,

I want a perfect soul...

I just want him to call me pretty. I want him to see me. I want him to see my dimpled thighs. I want him to see where the sun has kissed my skin and where it has not. I want him to see my split ends and my overgrown roots. I want him to see the stretch-marks, the scars, the blemishes.
Just see my imperfections. Call me pretty in spite of them.
I dare you.

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here...

I don't belong here. 

A larger part of me wants to be shunned. I know I deserve it. I deserve to be punished. I torture innocent people. I walk all over their hearts. I am a bully. 

"Who is it you want to be?" 
"I want to be sweet and thoughtful. I want to be courageous and confident. I don't want to fight with people. I want to be easy." 
"Okay, so be that. Problem solved. :)"

But it's so hard to be that when I've been this for the past 17 years.
Angry. Bitter. Mean. Cowardly. Selfish. Ugly. 
Fuck you. 

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie