from her
a very short collection of vignettes inspired by many
welcome.
"from her" is a constellation of scattered thoughts, confusion, unanswered questions. it's a peek into an untethered mind trying to survive at 2am. questionable diction, inconsistent verb tense, grammar errors, imperfect punctuation - these are the only things i promise it will have. it is an attempt to turn anxious thoughts into something messy but real. and perhaps despite (or because of) its messiness, "from her" will help you feel something, too. enjoy.
this was easier in my head
is innocence like trust? once broken, forever broken?
This was easier in my head. I often imagined my lips brushing against his without trouble, his teeth lightly grazing mine as we made love. In my fantasies, it was even I who guided his hand to the softest part of my body, my legs opening and inviting him to pleasure me as he wished.
But what happens in my head is not what happens in between linen sheets. His touch makes my body shake. I am a tomb. A tomb of bad memories. My hands grab his wrist, forcing him to pause, and he gasps for air as his warm lips leave my trembling ones. He falls to my side, and we lay beside another in silence.
Are you okay, he then asks. He leans in to kiss my lips, then my neck, and I can’t help sighing.
No, I am not, I think. But I kiss him back, yearningly, leaving a trail down his throat, because I can’t just receive and not give. Yes, I’m okay, just need a break, I say, hoping I sound convincing. Sorry, I add, because I know a prettier girl or two who could pleasure him more skillfully. My heart tears itself apart, knowing full well my back isn’t moist because I like this boy - I like him so much, he makes me so nervous - but because I’m scared he knows.
Does he know his hands weren’t the first to touch my body? That an older man knows it with far more detail, knowledge, precision than he ever will.
Does he tell it is not only him I think of when we make love? That a rougher face invades my mind. Sharper eyes than this boy’s, a devilish smile nothing like his sweet one.
Does he realize he has made a mistake?
My body tremors because it is tortured, not knowing if it loves or hates this, if it wants his skin pressed against mine for a second longer. Does my body wish to be free from my mind? Or is it punishing me for letting his eyes see my naked form, for craving the way his lips travel down to the stretch marks around my thighs?
I’m okay, I whisper as my fingers trail the sweat lining the side of his face. I’m ready again. I am cradled tenderly in his arms, I remind myself. This boy is kind. The older man was not.
Are you sure? he asks.
I hate how cautious he sounds when he asks this; he deserves better, I think. Yes, I lie, because I want him to believe I am worth it. That I am his everything, the way he is mine. That I am not a mistake, even if I am. He kisses me softly in response, before flipping me over, my back now against the bed as his masterpiece of a body hovers over my aching one. He begins his magic again; the pleasure makes me so delirious I am dizzy, and I beg desperately in between gasps for more. My hands find their way around his neck, and I force myself to shut off my mind as I cannot help bending towards him, my back arched as his gentle hands explore my every curve and crevice.
did you get my text?
The phone never rings twice before I pick up. I slam my favorite book shut, clearing my throat as a tired but comfortably familiar face greets me with a smile.
“Hey Mels.”
Mels. I love the way my name hangs from his lips. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much,” he says, his chin on his propped hand. “I just miss you. ”
Questions seem to dance across his face, and I wonder what he is thinking. Truthfully, it has been harder these days, trying to read and understand cues from a small iPhone screen. I notice the large glass window behind him, uncovering New York’s lofty skyscrapers and hazy skies.
“I miss you, too,” I quickly say. Sometimes it gets exhausting repeating the same thing for seven months. “You’re at work, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, I have a meeting soon. But our boss gave us a longer break, so I thought I’d call.”
I should feel grateful to hear that, but it hurts. We used to call every day. Then every day turned into once a week, and once a week into whenever he had longer lunch breaks. It feels like getting leftovers on Thanksgiving.
“When’s your meeting?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“In about fifteen minutes.” He runs his large hand through wavy hair, which falls again over a set of brown eyes. “We’re releasing a new offering into the market in two weeks, so everyone’s been-”
I hear a female voice interrupt him: “Hey, good luck on your presentation today.”
I watch as he mutes his microphone before looking up from the screen and mouthing a word of thanks. He laughs and says something else I can’t decipher, and suddenly, I wish I could read mouths.
Unmuting his phone, he says, “Sorry, that was a colleague.”
I’m embarrassed by the envy I feel and force myself to swallow it. “No, you’re good.” I force my lips to tilt upwards. “Is she on your team?”
“Nah, she manages the product marketing team.” He pauses before connecting the dots. “Her work is pretty similar to yours, actually.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” The jealously I tried to clamp down throws itself back up. The annoying, insecure side of me emerges, wondering just how good at product marketing she is, if she’s prettier or skinnier than me, how old she is, how long she’s been working at the same company as him. I notice these thoughts and flush in frustration. “I miss seeing you present. Remember the capstone class we took together our senior year?”
“Gosh, are you talking about that one presentation I started preparing for at 9am the day of?”
“Yes, that presentation you somehow pulled off,” I laugh. We had been friends for five years, but that was the day I started seeing him differently.
“You know,” he quips, an eyebrow raised. “Sometimes I get nervous presenting these pitches at company meetings, but then I imagine you sitting in the room, watching me, and I feel that confidence again.”
His words make me blush, and I hate how at the same, a new worry creeps into my mind: will he stop feeling this way? Distance is already a barrier, and his workload seems only to increase. As for me, I’ll be traveling soon to meet with business partners in Asia and Europe. Except for in December, our schedules won’t overlap for another year.
I keep telling myself it’s not too hard, that the wait is bearable and worth it. Surely, as long as we love each other enough, we can withstand the temporary pains of being apart, of relying on Facetimes and phone calls to send support both ways. But I find myself having a harder time these days. I miss his touch, even the slightest brush of his fingers across my arm, or his breath on my skin when he whispers something funny into my ear.
I sigh, taking in his features before asking, “Well, will you be back in Chicago for Christmas?”
“That’s the goal. My sisters are going back for sure, so we’re hoping to do a family reunion. And I miss you terribly,” he says, pouting and wrinkling his nose. I giggle at the sight. I know with me, he can be the silliest twenty-four-year-old baby. “You’ll be home though, right?”
“Yes, I’ll definitely be home,” I assure. He doesn’t know, but I’ve been forcing myself to go to work, even on days when I’m so exhausted I’m scared I’ll fall asleep driving to work. But my company gives me limited sick days and PTO, and if I want to go home to see him for more than five days, I’ll need all the time off I can. “We’ll have so much to catch up on when we see each other again.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy lately.”
When did sorry become my least favorite word? “It’s no one ’ s fault. We promised each other we’d prioritize our careers.” I realize when I say this I’m just trying to convince myself that our decision was right.
“Yeah... I know.”
“And we're still young, ” I add, “still trying to figure out if we actually like our jobs.” I clench my jaw. “Don't worry about me for now and focus on the presentation, yeah?”
“Okay.” I can tell how guilty he sounds when he then says, “I think I should go now. I need to get there early to make sure the equipment works.”
“Yes, go set up.” I flash a steady smile, and he mirrors me. I watch as he runs his hand across his face, and it’s only then when I notice how his cheekbones stick out more than before. He lost weight.
“And don’t forget to eat, okay?” I blurt, and I already miss him. I feel time slipping between my fingers, as if our phones will automatically disconnect if I don’t say everything I want to say quickly enough. “Make sure to get enough sleep. If you’re tired, it’s okay to take a day off. And you know I’ll always be here to listen, so just call. You’re never a burden, remember that, all right?”
He smiles in the endearing way he does as I say all of this. “I got it, Mels, and same goes to you. Thank you always.”
“Hang in there.”
“You, too,” he says, “I’ll call you after this presentation to tell you all about it, okay? I love you. ”
I find myself lacking the energy to respond, so I just nod and wave as he hangs up. I stare at my phone screen, now dark and empty, and see my reflection staring back. Before I let myself dwell any longer in the discomfort I feel, I put my phone on airplane mode and pick my book back up. I’m not worried that my phone’s not connected to Wi-fi.
It’s not like he’ll call back anyways.
hard to love 03
am i hard to love, or are you bad at loving?
You’re hard to love because you’re a collection of broken pieces, glued together by the purple stick sitting in that child’s pencil box. You’re hard to love because your heart refuses to let anyone in; it asks for a secret password only the man you resent can unlock. You’re hard to love because your body remembers pain before it recognizes joy, before it can produce a sound of pure laughter or feel the comfort of innocent ease.
But you’re hard to love, he won’t admit, for different reasons.
You’re hard to love because you express your suffering as easily as you discuss the weather, drawing the anger that boils in your heart on paper like mankind scars the ground with streaks of blood. You’re hard to love because you were a child whose heart was slammed into a cage. But the truth is you were never meant to be set free; you were only meant to be free.
This is what he refuses to see, refuses to acknowledge. It shakes him to the core that you make known the fury that burns within, and he hates your desire for power and independence.
But you smile a bit to yourself when he says you’re hard to love, because you know that a deeper part of him sees you as a challenge. He rejects ease, rejects a blank canvas and a free heart. He likes to help the injured bird so he can tell his friends it is he who gave it healing, purpose, hope.
This is why it doesn’t offend you when he calls you hard to love. It delights you in a twisted way. It is the proof you were looking for: that he, in his blindness, believes he should control you. Change you. But little does he know that you could give him the breath he needs just to snatch it away, that you could mold him into the sculpture your eyes find delight in just to break him as you will.
why did we run the red?
go play your video games
Life is made of choices. Our choices reveal our intentions. Our intentions lead to our choices. It’s all a cycle, and it’s an inescapable one.
So make your choice - is it me or your video games, me or your movie, me or the friend who can wait?
Who did you fall in love with? What kind of girl was she? Was she sweet, soft, shaken easily? Or was she me, a tangle of ambition, empathy, humor, strength, anxiety?
What did you expect of me, when we were separated by miles of questions and what ifs? Don’t think I didn’t wish to be by your side, to have felt the warmth of your body instead of the heavy sheets I wrapped myself in when the void grew unbearably large. I, too, wish life was a movie, where you’d run to my front door every time I cringed at the reflection in the mirror, every time I cried into my palms alone, every time I mapped out my life but wondered where you fit into it.
I wondered these things until my head ached, until I grew embarrassed by the endless shouting in my head.
But what lived in your head? What thoughts roamed through your mind when you thought of me? Did you think it would be easy, when you told me you liked me that night on the train?
Do you even think of me?
If you knew our present and could go back to that night, would you have done the same? Held my hand in the back of my dad’s car like it was the difference between life and death? Held onto it when the car stopped at a red light, even though my palms were warm, even though the blush in my cheeks outcompeted the red traffic light?
Because months later, I found myself begging for answers, wondering what I was to you. Was I like the wallet you held onto so closely, never forgetting its value, or was I like the worn shoes you wore every time you went to the dance room, just something that got you to your next goal?
Despite these questions, I still find myself missing you. Your kind smile. Your scent. Your presence. I keep the clay beansprout with a broken leg your little sister made me a year ago on my drawer. I have the photos you drew of us folded neatly in my notebook. I have pictures living silently in my phone, and I don’t know what to do with them. These things, these leftovers of our love, remind me I must make choices too. To keep these memories tucked in the back of my mind and to look at them with bittersweet nostalgia, or to let myself be filled with the confusion, anger, and irritation that seem to be banging on the doors of my heart.
This time, if I called again, would you pick up immediately? Would you say “I like you ” like you did that night on the train? Would you come to me again?
This time, if I called again, would you choose me over your video games? Over your movie? Over the friend who can wait?
Life is filled with choices. Our choices reveal our intentions. Our intentions lead to our choices. It’s all a cycle, and it’s an inescapable one. What a shame that some choices can’t be made again.
Don’t throw me a party, with fake smiles, sugary cake, and preservatives. Throw me a funeral, bring my family and my relatives. I want to mourn my peace and innocence.
No more singing, cry as I give my two cents, About how I wanna fuck the patriarchy, not the men who have it easy.
Let me curse the day he was born, he who left my peace ripped and torn. My body, home to bad memory and ecstasy. My mind, the souvenir of dark reality.
Give me a funeral, I want to beg for my childhood. It'll leave me hurt, but I need pain to feel good.
Happy birthday to me, one step closer to the grave Where I’ll make him remember and scream out my name.
Happy birthday to me, maybe I’ll finally be happy. But if it’s revenge or peace, which will it be?
I eat gummies with my crown of cavities Hoard chocolate from living room beasts. Mirrors screaming “fat,” I'm so sick of this mold. “Get rid of it." I hate how I do what I’m told.
To purge the emptiness away from me Hand on my side, sanity gone with the calories.
Happy birthday to me, another year of adds and subtracts. Kill my body, but I’ll be pretty at last. Happy birthday to me, maybe I’ll finally be happy But if it’s only me or skinny, which should it be?
Twenty one, it’ll be fun
Knowing what I’ve done With the sadness in my heart How I turned trauma into art.
Twenty one, it’ll be fun
Let’s go clubbing, drinks on me. Might throw everything up, but I'll feel normal at last. Trade the pain for the high, let me escape my past.
i have questions for you
but do you have the answers?
Who are you to say I’m wrong about the way I feel?
When you’re made of glass; one tap and you’ll break?
My body holds the weight of memory, I know it far too well.
I know the perk of my ears, the permanent tightness in my chest.
I know the hunch of my shoulders, the fake confidence in my eyes. The overwhelming peace I feel around you. That was the first thing I didn’t know. But now that I have it, please let it stay that way.
Why would you say I’m wrong about the way I feel?
It’s making me rethink myself again. Is there a block between my eyes? A stone in my mind?
Am I as delusional as all of them say I am?
“She’s just a woman of rage.”
“She’s impossible to love.”
Unable to decipher, just a whirlwind of emotion?
All these questions dying to run through my mind. Please don’t put me through that again.
How could you say I’m wrong about the way I feel?
Have you ever seen me cry?
Do you know what breaks my heart?
Can you spell out my emotions better than I?
I, who has dissected myself to the point I’m sick of looking within.
I, who has talked to myself since a child when no one else wanted to talk to me. My hurt. My joys. My dreams. Can you name even one?
Where am I wrong about you?
It’s clear as day you’re made of worth and love. Of hurt and shame, like everyone else. A complex mixture of colors and shadows. Everyone knows it, everyone but you. Everyone says it, are they wrong, too? Or was everything you said just an excuse?
If you knew I liked you but did nothing to stop it, is it because you secretly liked it, too? The attention, the laughs, the smiles I gave so naturally. Perhaps you were right that you were worse than I thought, For you to keep pulling a string meant to be cut.
These are the questions
Causing madness in my mind, Chaos in my heart.
It doesn’t take an Einstein to know how much I like you, so who are you to cause me to doubt myself?
All these questions:
Who? Where? How? Why?
Where? How? Why?
How? Why? Why?
dear reader,
i'm actually a very happy person. and yes, i mean it. i like to tune into the darkest voices inside my head, though. i think we've been taught since we were young to neglect that part of ourselves and feel ashamed by it. so when writing the pieces in "from her," i paid extremely close attention to the ugly, petty, frustrated, lost, outraged, curious, and terrified voices in my head. of course, "from her" doesn't reflect every story or experience. it only showed one out of billions. i know there are so many more stories and voices that need to be heard. thanks for listening to mine, and i hope you make your voice be known, too. please. i need it. you need it. we all need it. <3 sincerely, her