I Was Here
I sat next to sleeping students and girls on laptops, in a room full of couches. The sun refracted off of the pinholes and scratches on the walls. People walked towards this area with their head tilted and lips twisted to the side of their face. They choose a place on a couch and suddenly become docile; so unassuming that I felt bad even glancing in their direction.
It took about an hour before I realized that the lump on the couch across from me wasn’t another cushion, but someone curled up into a ball. My bus wasn’t due to arrive for another 20 minutes. I sat with my earphones in and no music playing. The muted sounds of the crowd boomed like a warning shot that said, “Loneliness is dangerous.” I ignored them anyways.
Last week I sat and listened to several people discuss my love life like I wasn’t being cast in the starring role. It was a strange and wonderful thing hearing these folks discuss what the main character in my poem was trying to accomplish by doing this, that, and the other thing. I wondered what I was actually thinking in those moments. Maybe I was trying to build trust when I did this, or maybe I was terrified in that moment. Did I even do that, or was it something I just made up?
Sometimes, I imagine that the story of my life is being etched on my body. It starts at the back of my neck and uses my freckles and scarred imperfections for punctuation. My earphones are blown out of their comfort zone and I’m forced to listen to the amplified crowd feedback. Every muscle in my body tenses as my fingers separate themselves.
Then silence. Pure, blissful silence for the few moments before that one brave soul opens their mouth to say…
I sat in a room full of couches. The sun picked up the day gently and smacked it on the ass. Something was weaving itself together inside my veins. I may not be where I need to be, but today…I felt fucking epic. Today, the writing wasn’t on the wall, it scrawled across my chest, reading: Here I am.